3  1822  01086  7224 


\ 


ARY 


3   1822  01086  7224 


PS 


7 


COMPLETE  POETICAL  WRITINGS 


J     G     HOLLAND 


COPYRIGHT   BY 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1879. 


COPYRIGHT  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


TROW'S 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 

205-213  East   i2th  Street, 

NEW  YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


BlTTER-SWEET I 

Picture fc 3 

Persons 6 

Prelude 8 

A  Song  of  Doubt 9 

A  Song  of  Faith 10 

First  Movement — The  Question  stated  and  argued 1 1 

The  Hymn 31 

First  Episode — The  Question  illustrated  by  Nature 37 

Second  Movement — The  Question  illustrated  by  Experience.  49 

Second  Episode — The  Question  illustrated  by  Story 87 

Third  Movement — The  Question  illustrated  by  the  Denoue 
ment  101 

L'Envoy 121 

THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST 123 

KATHRINA 137 

A  Tribute 139 

Part  I.— Childhood  and  Youth 143 

Complaint 175 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Part  II. —Love X79 

A  Reflection 241 

Part  III.— Labor 243 

Despair. 293 

Part  IV. — Consummation 297 

JACOB  HURU'S  CHILD 3X7 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  MANSE 331 

Prelude 333 

Love's  Experiments 337 

Selim  and  Nourmahal 366 

Love's  Philosophies 377 

Love's  Consummation 401 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  WAR 437 

THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY 443 

SHORTER  POEMS : 

The  Palmer's  Vision 461 

To  Whittier  on  his  Seventieth  Birthday 463 

A  Glimpse  of  Youth 464 

A  Golden  Wedding-Song 465 

Daniel  Gray 467 

Merle  the  Counsellor 469 

Wanted 472 

Verses  read  at  the  Hadley  Centennial 473 

A  Christmas  Carol 476 

The  Old  Clock  of  Prague 477 

Albert  Durer's  Studio 479 

Alone  ! 480 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGE 

Song  and  Silence 481 

Where  shall  the  Baby's  Dimple  be  ? 483 

To  a  Sleeping  Singer 484 

Eureka 485 

Returning  Clouds 486 

Gradatim 487 

On  the  Righi 488 

The  Wings 489 

Intimations 494 

Words 496 

Sleeping  and  Dreaming 498 

Old  and  Blind 501 

Her  Argument 503 

A  Legend  of  Leap  Year 507 

False  and  True 509 

Threnody 510 

To  My  Dog  "  Blanco  " 511 

Two  Homes 513 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PORTRAIT Frontispiece, 

Engraved  by  T.   COLE,  from  a  drawing  by  WYATT  EATON. 

BITTER-SWEET. 

Facing  page 

THE  PATRIARCH  .  4 

Designer,  C.  S.  REINHART.     Engraver,  J.  G.  SMITHWICK. 

THE  CELLAR  SCENE 38 

Designer,  C.  S.  REINHART.     Engraver,  J.  G.  SMITHWICK. 

GRACE  AND  MARY 80 

Designer,  C.  S.  REINHART.     Engraver,  J.  G.  SMITHWICK. 

HOMELESS     ...........    101 

Designer,  C.  S.  REINHART.     Engraver,  J.  G.  SMITHWICK. 

THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST 132 

"  I  marveled  much  that  a  thing  so  vile 
Should  be  to  herso  dear." 

Designer,  MAKY  HALLOCK  FOOTE.    Engraver,  J.  P.  DAVIS. 
I* 


X  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

KATHRINA. 

Facing  page 

"Thou  lovely  vale  of  sweetest  stream  that  flows."  .         .        .     143 
Designer,  C.  C.  GRISWOLD.     Engraver.  W.  J.  LiNTON. 

* 

"  I  kissed  away  her  tears. " 14? 

Designer,  W.  J.  HENNESSY.     Engraver,  W.  J.  LINTON. 

"  When  the  morning  rose,  the  earth  was  white. "     .        .        .     168 
Designer,  C.  C.  GRISWOLD.    Engraver,  W.  J.  LINTON. 

"  I  took  the  road 

That  eastward  cleft  the  town. " 180 

Designer,  C.  C.  GRISWOLD.     Engraver,  W.  J.  LINTON. 

"The  low  hours  of  an  afternoon." 191 

Designer,  C.  C.  GRISWOLD.     Engraver,  W.  J.  LINTON. 

•'  Slow  in  the  golden  twilight,  toward  her  home, 
Her  hand  upon  my  arm,  we  loitered  on."     ....     220 
Designer,  C.  C.  GRISWOLD.     Engraver,  W.  J.  LINTON. 

"  She  sat 

Through  the  long  hour  in  which  I  read  to  her."      .        .        .     259 
Designer,  W.  J    HENNESSY.     Engraver,  W.  J.  LINTON. 

"Again  I  trod  the  forest  paths." 302 

Designer,  C.  C.  GRISWOLD.     Engraver,  W.  J.  LINTON. 

"  In  the  East  the  morning  star  was  blazing  in  its  glory."        .    315 
Designer,  C.  C.  GRISWOLD.     Engraver,  W.  J.  LINTON. 

MISTRESS  OF  THE  MANSE. 

"  The  moon  came  up  the  summer  sky."  .....     341 
Designer,  THOMAS  MORAN.     Engraver,  J.  AUG.  BOGERT. 

"  Half-way  between  two  skies  adrift." 345 

Designer,  THOMAS  MORAN.     Engraver,  W.  H.  MOKSE. 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS.  xi 

Facing  page 

"  As  she  watched  her  down  the  street. "   .....     357 
Designer,  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE.     Engraver,  A.  V.  S.  ANTHONY. 

"  She  drank  with  pleased  and  eager  face."      ....     365 
Designer,  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE.      Engraver,  A.  V.  S.  ANTHONY. 

"  He  raised  her  in  his  tender  arms." 373 

Designer,  ALFRED  FREDERICKS.     Engraver,  A.  ]>OUUETT. 

"He  who  upon  an  Alpine  peak. " 392 

Designer,  THOMAS  MORAN.     Engraver,  J.  AUG.  BOGERT. 

"And  stretches  all  its  stunted  limbs 

Landward  and  heavenward." 397 

Designer,  THOMAS  MORAN.     Engraver,  J.  AUG.  HOGFKT. 

"  The  fairest  tint  was  hut  a  stain." 401 

Designer,  THOMAS  MOKAN.     Engraver,  J.  AUG.  lioi.KKi. 

"  Lonely  wives  sat  chill  and  dumb." 422 

Designer,  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE.     Engraver,  \V.  J.  LINTON. 

"  A  tottering  figure  reached  the  door  ; 

The  brother  fell  upon  the  bed. " 431 

Designer,  E.  A.  ABBEY.     Engraver,  J.  AUG.  BOGERT. 


BITTER-SWEET. 


PICTURE. 

WINTER'S  wild  birthnight!     In  the  fretful  East 
The  uneasy  wind  moans  with  its  sense  of  cold, 
And  sends  its  sighs  through  gloomy  mountain  gorge, 
Along  the  valley,  up  the  whitening  hill, 
To  tease  the  sighing  spirits  of  the  pines, 
And  waste  in  dismal  woods  their  chilly  life. 
The  sky  is  dark,  and  on  the  huddled  leaves — 
The  restless,  rustling  leaves — sifts  down  its  sleet, 
Till  the  sharp  crystals  pin  them  to  the  earth, 
And  they  grow  still  beneath  the  rising  storm. 
The  roofless  bullock  hugs  the  sheltering  stack, 
With  cringing  head  and  closely  gathered  feet, 
And  waits  with  dumb  endurance  for  the  morn. 
Deep  in  a  gusty  cavern  of  the  barn 
The  witless  calf  stands  blatant  at  his  chain  ; 
While  the  brute  mother,  pent  within  her  stall, 
With  the  wild  stress  of  instinct  goes  distraught, 
And  frets  her  horns,  and  bellows  through  the  night. 
The  stream  runs  black  ;  and  the  far  waterfall 
That  sang  so  sweetly  through  the  summer  eves, 
And  swelled  and  swayed  to  Zephyr's  softest  breath, 
Leaps  with  a  sullen  roar  the  dark  abyss, 
And  howls  its  hoarse  responses  to  the  wind. 
The  mill  is  still.     The  distant  factory, 
That  swarmed  yestreen  with  many-fingered  life 
And  bridged  the  river  with  a  hundred  bars 


4  BITTER-SWEET. 

Of  molten  light,  is  dark,  and  lifts  its  bulk 
With  dim,  uncertain  angles,  to  the  sky. 

Yet  lower  bows  the  storm.     The  leafless  trees 
Lash  their  lithe  limbs,  and,  with  majestic  voice, 
Call  to  each  other  through  the  deepening  gloom  ; 
And  slender  trunks  that  lean  on  burly  boughs 
Shriek  with  the  sharp  abrasion  ;    and  the  oak, 
Mellowed  in  fibre  by  unnumbered  frosts, 
Yields  to  the  shoulder  of  the  Titan  Blast, 
Forsakes  its  poise,  and,  with  a  booming  crash, 
Sweeps  a  fierce  passage  to  the  smothered  rocks, 
And  lies  a  shattered  ruin. 

Other  scene  : — 

Across  the  swale,  half  up  the  pine-capped  hill, 
Stands  the  old  farm-house  with  its  clump  of  barns — 
The  old  red  farm-house — dim  and  dun  to-night, 
Save  where  the  ruddy  firelights  from  the  hearth 
Flap  their  bright  wings  against  the  window-panes, — 
A  billowy  swarm  that  beat  their  slender  bars, 
Or  seek  the  night  to  leave  their  track  of  flame 
Upon  the  sleet,  or  sit,  with  shifting  feet 
And  restless  plumes,  among  the  poplar  boughs — 
The  spectral  poplars,  standing  at  the  gate. 

And  now  a  man,  erect,  and  tall,  and  strong, 

Whose  thin  white  hair,  and  cheeks  of  furrowed  bronze, 

And  ancient  dress,  betray  the  patriarch, 

Stands  at  the  window,  listening  to  the  storm  ; 

And  as  the  fire  leaps  with  a  wilder  flame — 

Moved  by  the  wind — it  wraps  and  glorifies 

His  .stalwart  frame,  until  it  flares  and  glows 

Like  the  old  prophets,  in  transfigured  guise, 

That  shape  the  sunset  for  cathedral  aisles. 


THE  PATRIARCH. 


BITTER-SWEET. 

And  now  it  passes,  and  a  sweeter  shape 

Stands  in  its  place.     O  blest  maternity  ! 

Hushed  on  her  bosom,  in  a  light  embrace, 

Her  baby  sleeps,  wrapped  in  its  long  white  robe  ; 

And  as  the  flame,  with  soft,  auroral  sweeps, 

Illuminates  the  pair,  how  like  they  seem, 

O  Virgin  Mother!  to  thyself  and  thine! 

Now  Samuel  comes  with  curls  of  burning  gold 

To  hearken  to  the  voice  of  God  without  : 

"  Speak,  mighty  One !     Thy  little  servant  hears  !  " 

And  Miriam,  maiden,  from  her  household  cares 

Comes  to  the  window  in  her  loosened  robe, — 

Comes  with  the  blazing  timbrels  in  her  hand, — 

And,  as  the  noise  of  winds  and  waters  swells, 

It  shapes  the  song  of  triumph  to  her  lips  : 

"  The  horse  and  he  who  rode  are  overthrown  !  " 

And  now  a  man  of  noble  port  and  brow, 

And  aspect  of  benignant  majesty, 

Assumes  the  vacant  niche,  while  either  side 

Press  the  fair  forms  of  children,  and  I  hear? 

"  Suffer  the  little  ones  to  come  to  me  ! " 


PERSONS. 

HERE  dwells  the  good  old  farmer,  Israel, 

In  his  ancestral  home — a  Puritan 

Who  reads  his  Bible  daily,  loves  his  God, 

And  lives  serenely  in  the  faith  of  Christ. 

For  three  score  years  and  ten  his  life  has  run 

Through  varied  scenes  of  happiness  and  woe ; 

But,  constant  through  the  wide  vicissitude, 

He  has  confessed  the  giver  of  his  joys, 

And  kissed  the  hand  that  took  them ;  and  whene'er 

Bereavement  has  oppressed  his  soul  with  grief, 

Or  sharp  misfortune  stung  his  heart  with  pain, 

He  has  bowed  down  in  childlike  faith,  and  said, 

"  Thy  will,  O  God — thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done !  " 

His  gentle  wife,  a  dozen  summers  since, 

Passed  from  his  faithful  arms  and  went  to  heaven ; 

And  her  best  gift — a  maiden  sweetly  named — 

His  daughter  Ruth — orders  the  ancient  house, 

And  fills  her  mother's  place  beside  the  board, 

And  cheers  his  life  with  songs  and  industry. 

But  who  are  these  who  crowd  the  house  to-night — 

A  happy  throng?     Wayfaring  pilgrims,  who, 

Grateful  for  shelter,  charm  the  golden  hours 

With  the  sweet  jargon  of  a  festival  ? 

Who  are  these  fathers  ?  who  these  mothers  ?  who 

These  pleasant  children,  rude  with  health  and  joy? 

It  is  the  Puritan's  Thanksgiving  Eve  ; 


BITTER-SWEET. 

And  gathered  home,  from  fresher  homes  around, 

The  old  man's  children  keep  the  holiday — 

In  dear  New  England,  since  the  fathers  slept — 

The  sweetest  holiday  of  all  the  year. 

John  comes  with  Prudence  and  her  little  girls, 

And  Peter,  matched  with  Patience,  brings  his  boys — 

Fair  boys  and  girls  with  good  old  Scripture  names — 

Joseph,  Rebekah,  Paul,  and  Samuel ; 

And  Grace,  young  Ruth's  companion  in  the  house, 

Till  wrested  from  her  last  Thanksgiving  Day 

By  the  strong  hand  of  Love,  brings  home  her  babe 

And  the  tall  poet  David,  at  whose  side 

She  went  away.     And  seated  in  the  midst, 

Mary,  a  foster-daughter  of  the  house, 

Of  alien  blood — self-aliened  many  a  year — 

Whose  chastened  face  and  melancholy  eyes 

Bring  all  the  wondering  children  to  her  knee, 

Weeps  with  the  strange  excess  of  happiness, 

And  sighs  with  joy. 

What  recks  the  driving  storm 
Of  such  a  scene  as  this  ?     And  what  reck  these 
Of  such  a  storm  ?     For  every  heavy  gust 
That  smites  the  windows  with  its  cloud  of  sleet, 
And  shakes  the  sashes  with  its  ghostly  hands, 
And  rocks  the  mansion  till  the  chimney's  throat 
Through  all  its  sooty  caverns  shrieks  and  howls, 
They  give  full  bursts  of  careless  merriment, 
Or  songs  that  send  it  baffled  on  its  way. 


PRELUDE. 

DOUBT  takes  to  wings  on  such  a  night  as  this ; 
And  while  the  traveller  hugs  his  fluttering  cloak, 
And  staggers  o'er  the  weary  waste  alone, 
Beneath  a  pitiless  heaven,  they  flap  his  face, 
And  wheel  above,  or  hunt  his  fainting  soul, 
As,  with  relentless  greed,  a  vulture  throng, 
With  their  lank  shadows  mock  the  glazing  eyes 
Of  the  last  camel  of  the  caravan. 
And  Faith  takes  forms  and  wings  on  such  a  night. 
Where  love  burns  brightly  at  the  household  hearth, 
And  from  the  altar  of  each  peaceful  heart 
Ascends  the  fragrant  incense  of  its  thanks, 
And  every  pulse  with  sympathetic  throb 
Tells  the  true  rhythm  of  trustfulest  content, 
They  flutter  in  and  out,  and  touch  to  smiles 
The  sleeping  lips  of  infancy  ;  and  fan 
The  blush  that  lights  the  modest  maiden's  cheeks  ; 
And  toss  the  locks  of  children  at  their  play. 

Silence  is  vocal  if  we  listen  well ; 

And  Life  and  Being  sing  in  dullest  ears 

From  morn  to  night,  from  night  to  morn  again, 

With  fine  articulations  ;  but  when  God 

Disturbs  the  soul  with  terror,  or  inspires 

With  a  great  joy,  the  words  of  Doubt  and  Faith 

Sound  quick  and  sharp  like  drops  on  forest  leaves ; 

And  we  look  up  to  where  the  pleasant  sky 

Kisses  the  thunder-caps,  and  drink  the  song. 


BITTER-SWEET. 


A   SONG   OF  DOUBT. 

The  day  is  quenched,  and  the  sun  is  fled  ; 

God  has  forgotten  the  world  ! 
The  moon  is  gone,  and  the  stars  are  dead  ; 

God  has  forgotten  the  world ! 

Evil  has  won  in  the  horrid  feud 

Of  ages  with  The  Throne  ; 
Evil  stands  on  the  neck  of  Good, 

And  rules  the  world  alone. 

There  is  no  good  ;  there  is  no  God ; 

And  Faith  is  a  heartless  cheat 
Who  bares  the  back  for  the  Devil's  rod, 

And  scatters  thorns  for  the  feet. 

What  are  prayers  in  the  lip's  of  death, 

Filling  and  chilling  with  hail  ? 
What  are  prayers  but  wasted  breath 

Beaten  back  by  the  gale  ? 

The  day  is  quenched,  and  the  sun  is  fled  ; 

God  has  forgotten  the  world ! 
The  moon  is  gone,  and  the  stars  are  dead ; 

God  has  forgotten  the  world! 


10  BITTER-SWEET. 


A   SONG   OF  FAITH. 

Day  will  return  with  a  fresher  boon  ; 

God  will  remember  the  world ! 
Night  will  come  with  a  newer  moon  ; 

God  will  remember  the  world ! 

Evil  is  only  the  slave  of  Good ; 

Sorrow  the  servant  of  Joy ; 
And  the  soul  is  mad  that  refuses  food 

Of  the  meanest  in  God's  employ. 

The  fountain  of  joy  is  fed  by  tears, 
And  love  is  lit  by  the  breath  of  sighs  ; 

The  deepest  griefs  and  the  wildest  fears 
Have  holiest  ministries. 

Strong  grows  the  oak  in  the  sweeping  storm  ; 

Safely  the  flower  sleeps  under  the  snow  ; 
And  the  farmer's  hearth  is  never  warm 

Till  the  cold  wind  starts  to  blow. 

Day  will  return  with  a  fresher  boon  ; 

God  will  remember  the  world ! 
Night  will  come  with  a  newer  moon ; 

God  will  remember  the  world ! 


FIRST   MOVEMENT. 

LOCALITY — The  square  room  of  a  New  England  farm-house, 

PRESENT— ISRAEL,   head  of  the  family ;    JOHN,    PETER,    DAVID, 
PATIENCE,  PRUDENCE,  GRACE,  MARY,  RUTH,  and  CHILDREN. 

THE  QUESTION  STATED  AND  ARGUED. 

ISRAEL. 

RUTH,  touch  the  cradle  !     Boys,  you  must  be  still ! 
The  baby  cannot  sleep  in  such  a  noise. 
Nay,  Grace,  stir  not ;  she'll  soothe  him  soon  enough, 
And  tell  him  more  sweet  stuff  in  half  an  hour 
Than  you  can  dream,  in  dreaming  half  a  year. 

RUTH. 

[Kneeling-  and  rocking  the  cradle. 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ? 

Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt ! 
Unwritten  history  ! 
Unfathomed  mystery! 

Yet  he  laughs  and  cries,  and  eats  and  drinks, 

And  chuckles  and  crows,  and  nods  and  winks, 

As  if  his  head  were  as  full  of  kinks 

And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphinx ! 
Warped  by  colic,  and  wet  by  tears, 
Punctured  by  pins,  and  tortured  by  fears, 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years  ; 


12  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  he'll  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go  ; — 
He  need  not  laugh,  for  he'll  find  it  so! 

Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks  ? 
Who  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 

By  which  the  mannikin  feels  his  way 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown, 
Blind,  and  wailing,  and  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  day  ? — 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown  sea, 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony, — 
Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  rolls, 
Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls — 
Barks  that  were  launched  on  the  other  side, 
And  slipped  from  Heaven  on  an  ebbing  tide  ! 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  eyes  ? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  hair  ? 

What  of  the  cradle-roof  that  flies 
Forward  and  backward  through  the  air  ? 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  breast — • 
Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white, 
Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight — 

Cup  of  his  life  and  couch  of  his  rest  ? 
What  does  he  think  when  her  quick  embrace 
Presses  his  hand  and  buries  his  face 
Deep  where  the  heart-throbs  sink  and  swell 
With  a  tenderness  she  can  never  tell, 

Though  she  murmur  the  words 

Of  all  the  birds- 
Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  well? 
Now  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  sleep! 
I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 
Over  his  eyes,  in  soft  eclipse, 
Over  his  brow,  and  over  his  lips, 


BITTER-SWEET.  1 3 

Out  to  his  little  finger-tips  ! 
Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes ! 
Down  he  goes  !     Down  he  goes ! 

[Rising,  and 'Carefully  retreating  to  her  seat. 

See  !     He  is  hushed  in  sweet  repose ! 

DAVID. 

[  Yawning. 

Behold  a  miracle !     Music  transformed 
To  morphine,  and  the  drowsy  god  invoked 
By  the  dull  prattle  of  a  maiden's  tongue  ! 
A  moment  more,  and  we  should  all  have  gone 
Down  into  dreamland  with  the  babe  !     Ah,  well ! 
There  is  no  end  of  wonders. 

RUTH. 

None,  indeed  \ 

When  lazy  poets  who  have  gorged  themselves, 
And  cannot  keep  awake,  make  the  attempt 
To  shift  the  burden  of  their  drowsiness, 
And  charge  a  girl  with  what  they  owe  to  greed. 

DAVID. 

At  your  old  tricks  again !     No  sleep  induced 
By  song  of  yours,  or  any  other  bird's, 
Can  linger  long  when  you  begin  to  talk. 
Grace,  box  your  sister's  ears  for  me,  and  save 
The  trouble  of  my  rising. 

RUTH. 
\Advancing,  and  kneeling  by  the  side  of  Grace* 

Sister  mine, 

Now  give  the  proof  of  your  obedience 
To  your  imperious  lord  !     Strike,  if  you  dare ! 
I'll  wake  your  baby  if  you  lift  your  hand. 


14  BITTER-SWEET. 

Ha !  king  ;  ha !  poet ;  who  is  master  now- 
Baby  or  husband  ?     Pr'ythee,  tell  me  that. 
Were  I  a  man, — thank  Heaven  I  am  not ! — 
And  had  a  wife  who  cared  not  for  my  will 
More  than  your  wife  for  yours,  I'd  hang  myself! 
Or  wear  an  apron.     See  !  she  kisses  me  ! 


DAVID. 


And  answers  to  my  will,  though  well  she  knows 
I'll  spare  to  her  so  terrible  a  task, 
And  take  the  awful  burden  on  myself; 
Which  I  will  do,  in  future,  if  she  please ! 


RUTH. 

Now  have  you  conquered !     Look  !     I  am  youi   slave. 
Denounce  me,  scourge  me,  anything  but  kiss ; 
For  life  is  sweet,  and  I  alone  am  left 
To  comfort  an  old  man. 

ISRAEL. 

Ruth,  that  will  do ! 
Remember  I'm  a  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
And  bide  no  quarrels  ;  and  if  you  and  David 
Persist  in  strife,  I'll  place  you  under  bonds 
For  good  behavior,  or  condemn  you  both 
To  solitary  durance  for  the  night. 

RUTH. 

Father,  you  fail  to  understand  the  case, 
And  do  me  wrong.     David  has  threatened  me 
With  an  assault  that  proves  intent  to  kill ; 
And  here's  my  sister  Grace,  his  wedded  wife, 
Who'll  take  her  oath,  that  just  a  year  ago 
He  entered  into  bonds  to  keep  the  peace 
Toward  me  and  womankind. 


BITTER-SWEET.  1 5 

DAVID. 

I'm  quite  asleep. 

ISRAEL. 

We'll  all  agree,  then,  to  pronounce  it  quits. 

RUTH. 

Till  he  awake  again,  of  course.     I  trust 
I  have  sufficient  gallantry  to  grant 
A  nap  between  encounters,  to  a  foe 
With  odds  against  him. 

ISRAEL. 

Peace,  my  daughter,  peace ! 
You've  had  your  full  revenge,  and  we  have  had 
Enough  of  laughter  since  the  day  began. 
We  must  not  squander  all  these  precious  hours 
In  jest  and  merriment ;  for  when  the  sun 
Shall  rise  to-morrow,  we  shall  separate, 
Not  knowing  we  shall  ever  meet  again. 
Meetings  like  this  are  rare  this  side  of  Heaven, 
And  seem  to  me  the  best  mementoes  left 
Of  Eden's  hours. 

GRACE. 

Most  certainly  the  best, 
And  quite  the  rarest,  but,  unluckily, 
The  weakest,  as  we  know ;  for  sin  and  pain 
And  evils  multiform,  that  swarm  the  earth, 
And  poison  all  our  joys  and  all  our  hearts, 
Remind  us  most  of  Eden's  forfeit  bliss. 

DAVID. 
Forfeit  through  woman. 


l6  BITTER-SWEET. 

GRACE. 

Forfeit  through  her  power;— 
A  power  not  lost,  as  most  men  know,  I  think, 
Beyond  the  knowledge  of  their  trustful  wives. 

MARY. 

[Rising,  and  walking  hurriedly  to  the  window. 
'Tis  a  wild  night  without. 

RUTH. 

And  getting  wild 

Within.     Now  Grace,  I — all  of  us — protest 
Against  a  scene  to-night.     Look  !     You  have  driven 
One  to  the  window  blushing,  and  your  lord, 
With  lowering  brow,  is  making  stern  essay 
To  stare  the  fire-dogs  out  of  countenance. 
These  honest  brothers,  with  their  honest  wives, 
Grow  glum  and  solemn,  too,  as  if  they  feared 
At  the  next  gust  to  see  the  windows  burst, 
Or  a  riven  poplar  crashing  through  the  roof. 
And  think  of  me  ! — a  simple-hearted  maid 
Who  learned  from  Cowper  only  yesterday 
(Or  a  schoolmaster,  with  a  handsome  face, 
And  a  strange  passion  for  the  text),  the  fact, 
That  wedded  bliss  alone  survives  the  fall. 
I'm  shocked  ;    I'm  frightened  ;    and  I'll  never  wed 
Unless  I — change  my  mind  ! 

ISRAEL. 

And  I  consent. 

DAVID. 

And  the  schoolmaster  with  the  handsome  face 
Propose. 


BITTER-SWEET.  IJ 

RUTH. 

Your  pardon,  father,  for  the  jest ! 
But  I  have  never  patience  with  the  ills 
That  make  intrusion  on  my  happy  hours. 
I  know  the  world  is  full  of  evil  things, 
And  shudder  with  the  consciousness.     I  know 
That  care  has  iron  crowns  for  many  brows  ; 
That  Calvaries  are  everywhere,  whereon 
Virtue  is  crucified,  and  nails  and  spears 
Draw  guiltless  blood  ;    that  sorrow  sits  and  drinks 
At  sweetest  hearts,  till  all  their  life  is  dry  ; 
That  gentle  spirits  on  the  rack  of  pain 
Grow  faint  or  fierce,  and  pray  and  curse  by  turns  ; 
That  Hell's  temptations,  clad  in  Heavenly  guise 
And  armed  with  might,  lie  evermore  in  wait 
Along  life's  path,  giving  assault  to  all — 
Fatal  to  most  ;    that  Death  stalks  through  the  earth, 
Choosing  his  victims,  sparing  none  at  last  ; 
That  in  each  shadow  of  a  pleasant  tree 
A  grief  sits  sadly  sobbing  to  its  leaves  ; 
And  that  beside  each  fearful  soul  there  walks 
The  dim,  gaunt  phantom  of  uncertainty, 
Bidding  it  look  before,  where  none  may  see, 
And  all  must  go  ;    but  I  forget  it  all — 
I  thrust  it  from  me  always  when  I  may  ; 
Else  I  should  faint  with  fear,  or  drown  myself 
In  pity.     God  forgive  me!    but  I've  thought 
A  thousand  times  that  if  I  had  His  power, 
Or  He  my  love,  we'd  have  a  different  world 
From  this  we  live  in. 

ISRAEL. 

Those  are  sinful  thoughts, 
My  daughter,  and  too  surely  indicate 
A  wilful  soul,  unreconciled  to  God. 


1 8  BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 

So  you  have  told  me  often.     You  have  said 
That  God  is  just,  and  I  have  looked  around 
To  seek  the  proof  in  human  lot,  in  vain. 
The  rain  falls  kindly  on  the  just  man's  fields, 
But  on  the  unjust  man's  more  kindly  still  ; 
And  I  have  never  known  the  winter's  blast, 
Or  the  quick  lightning,  or  the  pestilence, 
Make  nice  discriminations  when  let  slip 
From  God's  right  hand. 

ISRAEL. 

'Tis  a  great  mystery  ; 

Yet  God  is  just,  and, — blessed  be  His  name  ! 
Is  loving  too.     I  know  that  I  am  weak, 
And  that  the  pathway  of  His  Providence 
Is  on  the  hills  where  I  may  never  climb. 
Therefore  my  reason  yields  her  hand  to  Faith, 
And  follows  meekly  where  the  angel  leads. 
I  see  the  rich  man  have  his  portion  here, 
And  Lazarus,  in  glorified  repose, 
Sleep  like  a  jewel  on  the  breast  of  Faith 
In  Heaven's  broad  light.     I  see  that  whom  God  loves 
He  chastens  sorely,  but  I  ask  not  why. 
I  only  know  that  God  is  just  and  good  : 
All  else  is  mystery.     Why  evil  lives 
Within  His  universe,  I  may  not  know. 
I  know  it  lives,  and  taints  the  vital  air  ; 
And  that  in  ways  inscrutable  to  me — 
Yet  compromising  not  his  soundless  love 
And  boundless  power — it  lives  against  His  will. 

RUTH. 

I  am  not  satisfied.     If  evil  live 
Against  God's  will,  evil  is  king  of  all, 


BITTER-SWEET.  19 

And  they  do  well  who  worship  Lucifer. 

I  am  not  satisfied.     My  reason  spurns 

Such  prostitution  to  absurdities. 

I  know  that  you  are  happy  ;    but  I  shrink 

From  your  blind  faith  with  loathing  and  with  fear, 

And  feel  that  I  must  win  it,  if  I  win, 

With  the  surrender,  not  of  will  alone, 

But  of  the  noblest  faculty  that  God 

Has  crowned  me  with. 

ISRAEL. 

O  blind  and  stubborn  child  ! 
My  light,  my  joy,  my  burden  and  my  grief! 
How  would  I  lead  you  to  the  wells  of  peace, 
And  see  you  dip  your  fevered  palms  and  drink ! 
Gladly  to  purchase  this  would  I  lay  down 
The  precious  remnant  of  my  life,  and  sleep, 
Wrapped  in  the  faith  you  spurn,  till  the  archangel 
Sounds  the  last  trump.     But  God's  good  will  be  done. 
I  leave  you  with  Him. 

RUTH. 

Father,  talk  not  thus! 
Oh,  do  not  blame  me  !     I  would  do  it  all, 
If  but  to  bless  you  with  a  single  joy  ; 
But  I  am  helpless. 

ISRAEL. 

God  will  help  you,  Ruth. 

RUTH. 

To  quench  my  reason  ?     Can  I  ask  the  boon  ? 
My  lips  would  blister  with  the  blasphemy. 
I  cannot  take  your  faith  ;  and  that  is  why 
I  would  forget  that  I  am  in  a  world 


20  BITTER-SWEET. 

Where  evil  lives,  and  why  I  guard  my  joys 
With  such  a  jealous  care. 

DAVID. 

There,  Ruth,  sit  down! 
'Tis  the  old  question,  with  the  old  reply. 
You  fly  along  the  path,  with  bleeding  feet, 
Where  many  feet  have  flown  and  bled  before  ; 
And  he  who  seeks  to  guide  you  to  the  goal, 
Has  (let  me  say  it,  father,)  stopped  far  short, 
And  taken  refuge  at  a  wayside  inn, 
Whose  haunted  halls  and  mazy  passages 
Receive  no  light,  save  through  the  riddled  roof, 
Pierced  thick  by  pilgrim  staves,  that  Faith  may  lie 
Upon  its  back,  and  only  gaze  on  Heaven. 
I  would  not  banish  evil  if  I  could  ; 
Nor  would  I  be  so  deep  in  love  with  joy 
As  to  seek  for  it  in  forgetfulness, 
Through  faith  or  fear. 

RUTH. 

Teach  me  the  better  way, 
And  every  expiration  from  my  lips 
Shall  be  a  grateful  blessing  on  your  head  ; 
And  in  the  coming  world  I'll  seek  the  side 
Of  no  more  gracious  angel  than  the  man 
Who  gives  me  brotherhood  by  leading  me 
Home  with  himself  to  heaven. 

ISRAEL. 

My  son, 

Be  careful  of  your  words  !     'Tis  no  light  thing 
To  take  the  guidance  of  a  straying  soul. 


BITTER-SWEET.  21 

DAVID. 

I  mark  the  burden  well,  and  love  it,  too, 
Because  I  love  the  girl  and  love  her  lord, 
And  seek  to  vindicate  His  love  to  her 
And  waken  hers  for  Him.     Be  this  my  plea : 
God  is  almighty — all-benevolent ; 
And  naught  exists  save  by  His  loving  will. 
Evil,  or  what  we  reckon  such,  exists, 
And  not  against  His  will  ;    else  the  Supreme 
Is  subject,  and  we  have  in  place  of  God 
A  phantom  nothing,  with  a  phantom  name. 
Therefore  I  care  not  whether  He  ordain 
That  evil  live,  or  whether  He  permit  ; 
Therefore  I  ask  not  why,  in  either  case, 
As  if  He  meant  to  curse  me,  but  I  ask 
What  He  would  have  this  evil  do  for  me  ? 
What  is  its  mission  ?    what  its  ministry  ? 
What  golden  fruit  lies  hidden  in  its  husk  ? 
How  shall  it  nurse  my  virtue,  nerve  my  will, 
Chasten  my  passions,  purify  my  love, 
And  make  me  in  some  goodly  sense  like  Him 
Who  bore  the  cross  of  evil  while  He  lived, 
Who  hung  and  bled  upon  it  when  He  died, 
And  now,  in  glory,  wears  the  victor's  crown  ? 

ISRAEL. 

If  evil,  then,  have  privilege  and  part 

In  the  economy  of  holiness, 

Why  came  the  Christ  to  save  us  from  its  power 

And  bring  us  restoration  of  the  bliss 

Lost  in  the  lapse  of  Eden  ? 

DAVID. 

And  would  you 
Or  Ruth  have  restoration  of  that  bliss, 


22  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  welcome  transplantation  to  the  state 
Associate  with  it  ? 

RUTH. 

Would  I?     Would  I  not! 
Oh,  I  have  dreamed  of  it  a  thousand  times, 
Sleeping  and  waking,  since  the  torch  of  thought 
Flashed  into  flame  at  Revelation's  touch, 
And  filled  my  spirit  with  its  quenchless  fire. 
Most  envious  dreams  of  innocence  and  joy 
Have  haunted  me, — dreams  that  were  born  in  sin, 
Yet  swathed  in  stainless  snow.    I've  dreamed,  and  dreamed, 
Of  wondrous  trees,  crowned  with  perennial  green, 
Whose  soft  still  shadows  gleamed  with  golden  lamps 
Of  pensile  fruitage,  or  were  flushed  with  life 
Radiant  and  tuneful  when  broad  flocks  of  birds 
Swept  in  and  out  like  sheets  of  living  flame. 
I've  dreamed  of  aisles  tufted  with  velvet  grass, 
And  bordered  with  the  strange  intelligence 
Of  myriad  loving  eyes  among  the  flowers, 
That  watched  me  with  a  curious,  calm  delight, 
As  rows  of  wayside  cherubim  may  watch 
A  new  soul,  walking  into  Paradise. 
I've  dreamed  of  sunsets  where  the  sun  supine 
Lay  rocking  on  the  ocean  like  a  god, 
And  threw  his  weary  arms  far  up  the  sky, 
And  with  vermilion-tinted  fingers  toyed 
With  the  long  tresses  of  the  evening  star. 
I've  dreamed  of  dreams  more  beautiful  than  all — 
Dreams  that  were  music,  perfume,  vision,  bliss, — 
Blent  and  sublimed,  till  I  have  stood  enwrapped 
In  the  quick  essence  of  an  atmosphere 
That  made  me  tremble  to  unclose  my  eyes 
Lest  I  should  look  on  God.     And  I  have  dreamed 
Of  sinless  men  and  maids,  mated  in  heaven, 


BITTER-SWEET.  23 

Ere  yet  their  souls  had  sought  for  beauteous  forms 

To  give  them  human  sense  and  residence, 

Moving  through  all  this  realm  of  choice  delights 

For  ever  and  for  aye  ;   with  hands  and  hearts 

Immaculate  as  light ;    without  a  thought 

Of  evil,  and  without  a  name  for  fear. 

Oh,  when  I  wake  from  happy  dreams  like  these, 

To  the  old  consciousness  that  I  must  die, 

To  the  old  presence  of  a  guilty  heart, 

To  the  old  fear  that  haunts  me  night  and  day, 

Why  should  I  not  deplore  the  graceless  fall 

That  makes  me  what  I  am,  and  shuts  me  out 

From  a  condition  and  society 

As  much  above  a  sinful  maiden's  dreams 

As  Eden  blest  surpasses  Eden  curst? 

DAVID. 

So  you  would  be  another  Eve,  and  so — 

Fall  with  the  first  temptation,  like  herself! 

God  seeks  for  virtue  ;    you  for  innocence. 

You'll  find  it  in  the  cradle — nowhere  else — 

Save  in  your  dreams,  among  the  grown  up  babes 

That  dwelt  in  Eden — powerless,  pulpy  souls 

That  showed  a-  dimple  for  each  touch  of  sin. 

God  seeks  for  virtue,  and,  that  it  may  live, 

It  must  resist,  and  that  which  it  resists 

Must  live.     Believe  me,  God  has  other  thought 

Than  restoration  of  our  fallen  race 

To  its  primeval  innocence  and  bliss. 

If  Jesus  Christ — as  we  are  taught — was  slain 

From  the  foundation  of  the  world,  it  was 

Because  our  evil  lived  in  essence  then — 

Coeval  with  the  great,  mysterious  fact. 

And  He  was  slain  that  we  might  be  transformed, — 

Not  into  Adam's  sweet  similitude — 


24  BITTER-SWEET. 

But  the  more  glorious  image  of  Himself, 
A  resolution  of  our  destiny 
As  high  transcending  Eden's  life  and  lot 
As  he  surpasses  Eden's  fallen  lord. 

RUTH. 

You're  very  bold,  my  brother,  very  bold. 
Did  I  not  know  you  for  an  earnest  man, 
When  sacred  themes  move  you  to  utterance, 
I'd  chide  you  for  those  most  irreverent  words 
Which  make  essential  to  the  Christian  scheme 
That  which  the  scheme  was  made  to  kill,  or  cure. 

DAVID. 

Yet  they  do  save  some  very  awkward  words, 

That  limp  to  make  apology  for  God, 

And,  while  they  justify  Him,  half  confess 

The  adverse  verdict  of  appearances. 

I  am  ashamed  that  in  this  Christian  age 

The  pious  throng  still  hug  the  fallacy 

That  this  dear  world  of  ours  was  not  ordained 

The  theatre  of  evil ;    for  no  law 

Declared  of  God  from  all  eternity 

Can  live  a  moment  save  by  lease  of  pain.  - 

Law  cannot  live,  e'en  in  God's  inmost  thought, 

Save  by  the  side  of  evil.     What  were  law 

But  a  weak  jest  without  its  penalty  ? 

Never  a  law  was  born  that  did  not  fly 

Forth  from  the  bosom  of  Omnipotence 

Matched,  wing-and-wing,  with  evil  and  with  good, 

Avenger  and  rewarder — both  of  God. 

RUTH. 

I  face  your  thought  and  give  it  audience ; 
But  I  cannot  embrace  it  till  it  come 


BITTER-SWEET.  25 

With  some  of  truth's  credentials  in  its  hands — 
The  fruits  of  gracious  ministries. 

DAVID. 

Does  he 

Who,  driven  to  labor  by  the  threat'ning  weeds, 
And  forced  to  give  his  acres  light  and  air 
And  traps  for  dew  and  reservoirs  for  rain, 
Till,  in  the  smoky  light  of  harvest  time, 
The  ragged  husks  reveal  the  golden  corn, 
Ask  truth's  credentials  of  the  weeds  ?     Does  he 
Who  prunes  the  orchard  boughs,  or  tills  the  field, 
Or  fells  the  forests,  or  pursues  their  prey, 
Until  the  gnarly  muscles  of  his  limbs 
And  the  free  blood  that  thrills  in  all  his  veins 
Betray  the  health  that  toil  alone  secures, 
Ask  truth's  credentials  at  the  hand  of  toil  ? 
Do  you  ask  truth's  credentials  of  the  storm, 
Which,  while  we  entertain  communion  here, 
Makes  better  music  for  our  huddling  hearts 
Than  choirs  of  stars  can  sing  in  fairest  nights  ? 
Yet  weeds  are  evils — evils  toil  and  storm. 
We  may  suspect  the  fair,  smooth  face  of  good  ; 
But  evil,  that  assails  us  undisguised, 
Bears  evermore  God's  warrant  in  its  hands. 

ISRAEL. 

I  fear  these  silver  sophistries  of  yours. 

If  my  poor  judgment  gives  them  honest  weight, 

Far  less  than  thirty  will  betray  your  Lord. 

You  call  that  evil  which  is  good,  and  good 

That  which  is  evil.     You  apologize 

For  that  which  God  must  hate,  and  justify 

The  life  and  perpetuity  of  that 


26  BITTER-SWEET. 

Which  sets  itself  against  His  holiness, 

And  sends  its  discords  through  the  universe. 

DAVID. 

I  sorrow  if  I  shock  you,  for  I  seek 

To  comfort  and  inspire.     I  see  around 

A  silent  company  of  doubtful  souls  ; 

But  I  may  challenge  any  one  of  them 

To  quote  the  meanest  blessing  of  its  life, 

And  prove  that  evil  did  not  make  the  gift, 

Or  bear  it  from  the  giver  to  its  hands. 

The  great  salvation  wrought  by  Jesus  Christ — 

That  sank  an  Adam  to  reveal  a  God — 

Had  never  come,  but  at  the  call  of  sin. 

No  risen  Lord  could  eat  the  feast  of  love 

Here  on  the  earth,  or  yonder  in  the  sky, 

Had  He  not  lain  within  the  sepulchre. 

'Tis  not  the  lightly  laden  heart  of  man 

That  loves  the  best  the  hand  that  blesses  all ; 

But  that  which,  groaning  with  its  weight  of  sin, 

Meets  with  the  mercy  that  forgiveth  much. 

God  never  fails  in  an  experiment, 

Nor  tries  experiment  upon  a  race 

But  to  educe  its  highest  style  of  life, 

And  sublimate  its  issues.     Thus  to  me 

Evil  is  not  a  mystery,  but  a  means 

Selected  from  the  infinite  resource 

To  make  the  most  of  me. 

RUTH. 

Thank  God  for  light ! 

These  truths  are  slowly  dawning  on  my  soul, 
And  take  position  in  the  firmament 

That  spans  my  thought,  like  stars  that  know  their  place. 
Dear  Lord !  what  visions  crowd  before  my  eyes — 


BITTER-SWEET.  2/ 

Visions  drawn  forth  from  memory's  mysteries 

By  the  sweet  shining  of  these  holy  lights  ! 

I  see  a  girl,  once  lightest  in  the  dance, 

And  maddest  with  the  gayety  of  life, 

Grow  pale  and  pulseless,  wasting  day  by  day, 

While  death  lies  idly  dreaming  in  her  breast, 

Blighting  her  breath,  and  poisoning  her  blood. 

I  see  her  frantic  with  a  fearful  thought 

That  haunts  and  horrifies  her  shrinking  soul, 

And  bursts  in  sighs  and  sobs  and  feverish  prayers ; 

And  now,  at  last,  the  awful  struggle  ends. 

A  sweet  smile  sits  upon  her  angel  face, 

And  peace,  with  downy  bosom,  nestles  close 

Where  her  worn  heart  throbs  faintly  ;  closer  still 

As  the  death  shadows  gather  ;  closer  still, 

As,  on  white  wings,  the  outward-going  soul 

Flies  to  a  home  it  never  would  have  sought, 

Had  a  great  evil  failed  to  point  the  way. 

I  see  a  youth  whom  God  has  crowned  with  power 

And  cursed  with  poverty.     With  bravest  heart 

He  struggles  with  his  lot,  through   toilsome  years, — 

Kept  to  his  task  by  daily  want  of  bread, 

And  kept  to  virtue  by  his  daily  task, — 

Till,  gaining  manhood  in  the  manly  strife, — 

The  fire  that  fills  him  smitten  from  a  flint — 

The  strength  that  arms  him  wrested  from  a  fiend — 

He  stands,  at  last,  a  master  of  himself, 

And,  in  that  grace,  a  master  of  his  kind. 

DAVID. 

Familiar  visions  these,  but  ever  full 

Of  inspiration  and  significance. 

Now  that  your  eyes  are  opened  and  you  see, 

Your  heart  should  take  swift  cognizance,  and  feel. 

How  do  these  visions  move  you  ? 


28  BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 

Like  the  hand 

Of  a  strong  angel  on  my  shoulder  laid, 
Touching  the  secret  of  the  spirit's  wings. 
My  heart  grows  brave.     I'm  ready  now  to  work — 
To  work  with  God,  and  suffer  with  His  Christ ; 
Adopt  His  measures,  and  abide  His  means. 
If,  in  the  law  that  spans  the  universe 
(The  law  its  maker  may  not  disobey), 
Virtue  may  only  grow  from  innocence 
Through  a  great  struggle  with  opposing  ill ; 
If  I  must  win  my  way  to  perfectness 
In  the  sad  path  of  suffering,  like  Him 
The  over- flowing  river  of  whose  life 
Touches  the  flood -mark  of  humanity 
On  the  white  pillars  of  the  heavenly  throne, 
Then  welcome  evil !     Welcome  sickness,  toil, 
Sorrow  and  pain,  the  fear  and  fact  of  death ! 

ISRAEL. 
And  welcome  sin  ? 

RUTH. 

Ah,  David  !  welcome  sin  ? 

DAVID. 

The  fact  of  sin — so  much  ; — it  must  needs  be 

Offences  come  ;  if  woe  to  him  by  whom, 

Then  with  good  reason  ;  but  the  fact  of  sin 

Unlocked  the  door  to  highest  destiny, 

That  Christ  might  enter  in  and  lead  the  way. 

God  loves  not  sin,  nor  I  ;  but  in  the  throng 

Of  evils  that  assail  us,  there  are  none 

That  yield  their  strength  to  Virtue's  struggling  arm 

With  such  munificent  reward  -of  power 


BITTER-SWEET.  29 

As  great  temptations.     We  may  win  by  toil 

Endurance  ;  saintly  fortitude  by  pain ; 

By  sickness,  patience  ;  faith  and  trust  by  fear ; 

But  the  great  stimulus  that  spurs  to  life, 

And  crowds  to  generous  development 

Each  chastened  power  and  passion  of  the  soul, 

Is  the  temptation  of  the  soul  to  sin, 

Resisted,  and  re-conquered,  evermore. 

RUTH. 

I  am  content ;  and  now  that  I  have  caught 

Bright  glimpses  of  the  outlines  of  your  scheme, 

As  of  a  landscape,  graded  to  the  sky, 

And  seen  through  trees  while  passing,  I  desire 

No  vision  further  till  I  make  survey 

In  some  good  time  when  I  may  come  alone, 

And  drink  its  beauty  and  its  blessedness. 

I've  been  forgetful  in  my  earnestness, 

And  wearied  every  one  with  talk.     These  boys 

Are  restive  grown,  or  nodding  in  their  chairs, 

And  older  heads  are  set,  as  if  for  sleep. 

I  beg  their  pardon  for  my  theft  of  time, 

And  will  offend  no  more. 

DAVID. 

Ruth,  is  it  right 

To  leave  a  brother  in  such  plight  as  this — 
Either  to  imitate  your  courtesy, 
Or  by  your  act  to  be  adjudged  a  boor? 

RUTH. 

Heaven  grant  you  never  note  a  sin  of  mine 
Save  of  your  own  construction  ! 


3O  BITTER-SWEET. 

ISRAEL. 

Let  it  pass ! 

I  see  the  spell  of  thoughtfulness  is  gone, 
Or  going  swiftly.     I  will  not  complain  ; 
But  ere  these  lads  are  fastened  to  their  games, 
And  thoughts  arise  discordant  with  our  theme, 
Let  us  with  gratitude  approach  the  throne 
And  worship  God.     I  wish  once  more  to  lead 
Your  hearts  in  prayer,  artd  follow  with  my  own 
The  leading  of  your  song  of  thankfulness. 
Then  will  I  lease  and  leave  you  for  the  night 
To  such  divertisement  as  suits  the  time, 
And  meets  your  humor. 

[  They  all  arise  and  the  old  man  prays, 

RUTH. 

f  After  a  pause. 

David,  let  us  see 

Whether  your  memory  prove  as  true  as  mine. 
Do  you  recall  the  promise  made  by  you 
This  night  one  year  ago, — to  write  a  hymn 
For  this  occasion  ? 

DAVID. 

I  recall,  and  keep. 

Here  are  the  copies,  written  fairly  out. 
Here,— father,  Mary,  Ruth,  and  all  the  rest  ; 
There's  one  for  each.     Now  what  shall  be  the  tune  ? 

ISRAEL. 

The  old  One  Hundredth — noblest  tune  of  tunes ! 
Old  tunes  are  precious  to  me  as  old  paths 
In  which  I  wandered  when  a  happy  boy. 
In  truth,  they  are  the  old  paths  of  my  soul, 
Oft  trod,  well  worn,  familiar,  up  to  God. 


BITTER-SWEET.  31 


THE  HYM.V. 

\In  which  all  unite  to  sing. 

For  Summer's  bloom  and  Autumn's  blight, 
For  bending  wheat  and  blasted  maize, 

For  health  and  sickness,  Lord  of  light, 
And  Lord  of  darkness,  hear  our  praise  ! 

We  trace  to  Thee  our  joys  and  woes, — 
To  Thee  of  causes  still  the  cause, — 

We  thank  Thee  that  Thy  hand  bestows  ; 
We  bless  Thee  that  Thy  love  withdraws. 

We  bring  no  sorrows  to  Thy  throne  ; 

We  come  to  Thee  with  no  complaint  ; 
In  Providence  Thy  will  is  done, 

And  that  is  sacred  to  the  saint. 

Here  on  this  blest  Thanksgiving  Night ; 

We  raise  to  Thee  our  grateful  voice  ; 
For  what  Thou  doest,  Lord,  is  right ; 

And  thus  believing,  we  rejoice. 


32  BITTER-SWEET. 

GRACE. 

A  good  old  tune,  indeed,  and  strongly  sung  ; 
But,  in  my  mind,  the  man  who  wrote  the  hymn 
Had  seemed  more  modest,  had  he  paused  awhile, 
Ere  by  a  trick  he  furnished  other  tongues 
With  words  he  only  has  the  heart  to  sing. 

DAVID. 

Oh,  Grace  !     Dear  Grace  ! 

RUTH. 

You  may  well  cry  for  grace, 
If  that's  the  company  you  have  to  keep. 

GRACE. 

I  thought  you  convert  to  his  sophistry. 
It  makes  no  difference  to  him,  you  know, 
Whether  I  plague  or  please. 

RUTH. 

It  does  to  you. 
ISRAEL. 

There,  children !     No  more  bitter  words  like  those ! 

I  do  not  understand  them  ;    they  awake 

A  sad  uneasiness  within  my  heart. 

I  found  but  Christian  meaning  in  the  hymn  ; 

Aye,  I  could  say  amen  to  every  line, 

As  to  the  breathings  of  my  own  poor  prayer. 

But  let  us  talk  no  more.     I'll  to  my  bed. 

Good  night,  my  children  !     Happy  thoughts  be  yours 

Till  sleep  arrive — then  happy  dreams  till  dawn  ! 

ALL. 

Father,  good  night! 

flsR,  fit,  retires. 


BITTER-SWEET.  33 

RUTH. 

There,  little  boys  and  girls — 
Off  to  the  kitchen  !     Now  there's  fun  for  you. 
Play  blind-man's-buff  until  you  break  your  heads  ; 
And  then  sit  down  beside  the  roaring  fire, 
And  with  wild  stories  scare  yourselves  to  death. 
We'll  all  be  out  there,  by-and-by.     Meanwhile, 
I'll  try  the  cellar  ;  and  if  I)avid,  here, 
Will  promise  good  behavior,  he  shall  be 
My  candle-bearer,  basket-bearer,  and— 
But  no  !     The  pitcher  I  will  bear  myself. 
I'll  never  trust  a  pitcher  to  a  man 
Under  this  house,  and — seventy  years  of  age. 

[  The  children  rush   out  of  the  room  with  a  shout,  which  wakes 
the  baby, 

That  noisy  little  youngster  on  the  floor 

Slept  through  theology,  but  wakes  with  mirth — 

Precocious  little  creature  !     He  must  go 

Up  to  his  chamber.     Come,  Grace,  take  him  off, — 

Basket  and  all.     Mary  will  lend  a  hand, 

And  keep  you  company  until  he  sleep. 

[GRACE  and  MARY  remove  the  cradle  to  the  chamber,  and  DAVID 
and  RUTH  retire  to  the  cellar. 

JOHN. 

[Rising  and  yawning. 
Isn't  she  the  strangest  girl  you  ever  saw  ? 

PRUDENCE. 

Queer,  rather,  I  should  say.     Grace,  now,  is  strange. 
I  think  she  treats  her  husband  shamefully. 
I  can't  imagine  what  possesses  her, 
Thus  to  toss  taunts  at  him  with  every  word. 
If  in  his  doctrines  there  be  truth  enough, 
He'll  be  a  saint. 
2* 


34  BITTER-SWEET. 

PATIENCE. 

If  he  live  long  enough. 

JOHN. 

Well,  now  I  tell  you,  such  wild  men  as  he, — 
Men  who  have  crazy  crotchets  in  their  heads, — 
Can't  make  a  woman  happy.     Don't  you  see  ? 
He  isn't  settled.     He  has  wandered  off 
From  the  old  landmarks,  and  has  lost  himself. 
I  may  judge  wrongly  ;  but  if  truth  were  told 
There'd  be  excuse  for  Grace,  I  warrant  ye. 
Grace  is  a  right  good  girl,  or  was,  before 
She  married  David. 

PATIENCE. 

Everybody  says 

He  makes  provision  for  his  family, 
Like  a  good  husband. 

PETER. 

We  can  hardly  tell.' 
When  men  get  loose  in  their  theology, 
The  screws  are  started  up  in  everything. 
Of  course,  I  don't  apologize  for  Grace. 
I  think  she  might  have  done  more  prudently 
Than  introduce  her  troubles  here  to-night, 
But,  after  all,  we  do  not  know  the  cause 
That  stirs  her  fretfulness. 

Well,  let  it  go! 

What  does  the  evening's  talk  amount  to  ?     Who 
Is  wiser  for  the  wisdom  of  the  hour  ? 
The  good  old  paths  are  good  enough  for  me. 
The  fathers  walked  to  heaven  in  them,  and  we, 
By  following  meekly  where  they  trod,  may  reach 
The  home  they  found.     There  will  be  mysteries  : 


BITTER-SWEET.  35 

Let  those  who  like,  bother  their  heads  with  them. 

If  Ruth  and  David  seek  to  fathom  all, 

I  wish  them  patience  in  their  bootless  quest. 

For  one,  I'm  glad  the  misty  talk  is  done, 

And  we,  alone. 

PATIENCE. 
And  I. 

JOHN. 

I,  too. 

PRUDENCE. 

And  I. 


FIRST   EPISODE. 

LOCALITY—  The  Cellar  Stairs  and  the  Cellar. 

PRESENT— DAVID  and  RUTH. 
THE   QUESTION    ILLUSTRATED   BY    NATURE. 

RUTH. 

LOOK  where  you  step,  or  you'll  stumble ! 

Care  for  your  coat,  or  you'll  crock  it ! 
Down  with  your  crown,  man  !     Be  humble  ! 

Put  your  head  into  your  pocket, 

Else  something  or  other  will  knock  it. 
Don't  hit  that  jar  of  cucumbers 

Standing  on  the  broad  stair  \ 
They  have  not  waked  from  their  slumbers 

Since  they  stood  there. 

DAVID. 

Yet  they  have  lived  in  a  constant  jar ! 
What  remarkable  sleepers  they  are  ! 

RUTH. 

Turn  to  the  left — shun  the  wall — 
One  step  more — that  is  all ! 
Now  we  are  safe  on  the  ground 
1    will  show  you  around. 


38  HITTER-SWEET. 

Sixteen  barrels  of  cider 

Ripening  all  in  a  row ! 

Open  the  vent-channels  wider! 

See  the  froth,  drifted  like  snow, 

Blown  by  the  tempest  below  ! 

Those  delectable  juices 

Flowed  through  the  sinuous  sluices 

Of  sweet  springs  under  the  orchard  ; 

Climbed  into  fountains  that  chained  them  ; 

Dripped  into  cups  that  retained  them, 

And  swelled  till  they  dropped,  and  we  gained  them. 

Then  they  were  gathered  and  tortured 

By  passage  from  hopper  to  vat, 

And  fell — every  apple  crushed  flat. 

Ah !  how  the  bees  gathered  round  them. 

And  how  delicious  they  found  them! 

Oat-straw,  as  fragrant  as  clover, 

Was  platted,  and  smoothly  turned  over, 

Weaving  a  neatly-ribbed  basket ; 

And,  as  they  built  up  the  casket, 

In  went  the  pulp  by  the  scoop-full, 

Till  the  juice  flowed  by  the  stoup-full, — 

Filling  the  half  of  a  puncheon 

While  the  men  swallowed  their  luncheon. 

Pure  grew  the  stream  with  the  stress 

Of  the  lever  and  screw, 
Till  the  last  drops  from  the  press 

Were  as  bright  as  the  dew. 
There  were  these  juices  spilled ; 
There  were  these  barrels  filled  ; 
Sixteen  barrels  of  cider — 
Ripening  all  in  a  row ! 
Open  the  vent-channels  wider! 
See  the  froth,  drifted  like  snow, 
Blown  by  the  tempest  below  ! 


THE   CELLAR. 


BITTER-SWEET.  39 

DAVID. 

Hearts,  like  apples,  are  hard  and  sour, 
Till  crushed  by  Pain's  resistless  power ; 
And  yield  their  juices  rich  and  bland 
To  none  but  Sorrow's  heavy  hand. 
The  purest  streams  of  human  love 

Flow  naturally  never, 
But  gush  by  pressure  from  above, 

With  God's  hand  on  the  lever. 
The  first  are  turbidest  and  meanest  ; 
The  last  are  sweetest  and  serenest. 

RUTH. 

Sermon  quite  short  for  the  text ! 
What  shall  we  hit  upon  next  ? 
Lift  up  the  lid  of  that  cask  ; 

See  if  the  brine  be  abundant  ; 
Easy  for  me  were  the  task 

To  make  it  redundant 
With  tears  for  my  beautiful  Zephyr — 

Pet  of  the  pasture  and  stall — 
Whitest  and  comeliest  heifer, 

Gentlest  of  all ! 

Oh,  it  seemed  cruel  to  slay  her  ! 

But  they  insulted  my  prayer 

For  her  careless  and  innocent  life, 

And  the  creature  was  brought  to  the  knife 

With  gratitude  in  her  eye  ; 

For  they  patted  her  back,  and  chafed  her  head, 
And  coaxed  her  with  softest  words,  as  they  led 

Her  up  to  the  ring  to  die. 
Do  you  blame  me  for  crying 
When  my  Zephyr  was  dying  ? 
I  shut  my  room  and  my  ears, 
And  opened  my  heart  and  my  tears, 


40  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  wept  for  the  half  of  a  day ; 

And  I  could  not  go 

To  the  rooms  below 
Till  the  butcher  went  away. 

DAVID. 

Life  evermore  is  fed  by  death, 

In  earth  and  sea  and  sky ; 
And,  that  a  rose  may  breathe  its  breath, 
Something  must  die. 

Earth  is  a  sepulchre  of  flowers, 

Whose  vitalizing  mould 
Through  boundless  transmutation  towers, 
In  green  and  gold. 

The  oak  tree,  struggling  with  the  blast, 

Devours  its  father  tree, 
And  sheds  its  leaves  and  drops  its  mast, 
That  more  may  be. 

The  falcon  preys  upon  the  finch, 

The  finch  upon  the  fly 
And  nought  will  loose  the  hunger-pinch 
But  death's  wild  cry. 

The  milk-haired  heifer's  life  must  pass 

That  it  may  fill  your  own, 
As  passed  the  sweet  life  of  the  grass 
She  fed  upon. 

The  power  enslaved  by  yonder  cask 

Shall  many  burdens  bear ; 
Shall  nerve  the  toiler  at  his  task, 
The  soul  at  prayer. 


BITTER-SWEET.  41 


From  lowly  woe  springs  lordly  joy  ; 

From  humbler  good  diviner  ; 
The  greater  life  must  aye  destroy 
And  drink  the  minor. 

From  hand  to  hand  life's  cup  is  passed 

Up  Being's  piled  gradation, 
Till  men  to  angels  yield  at  last 
The  rich  collation. 


RUTH. 

Well,  we  are  done  with  the  brute  ; 

Now  let  us  look  at  the  fruit, — 

Every  barrel,  I'm  told, 

From  grafts  half  a  dozen  years  old. 

That  is  a  barrel  of  russets  ; 

But  we  can  hardly  discuss  its 

Spheres  of  frost  and  flint, 
Till,  smitten  by  thoughts  of  Spring, 
And  the  old  tree  blossoming, 
Their  bronze  takes  a  yellower  tint, 
And  the  pulp  grows  mellower  in't  ; 
But  oh  !  when  they're  sick  with  the  savors 

Of  sweets  that  they  dream  of, 
Sure,  all  the  toothsomest  flavors 

They  hold  the  cream  of! 
You  will  be  begging  in  May, 
In  your  irresistible  way, 
For  a  peck  of  the  apples  in  gray. 

Those  are  the  pearmains,  I  think, — 

Bland  and  insipid  as  eggs ; 
They  were  too  lazy  to  drink 

The  light  to  its  dregs, 


42  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  left  them  upon  the  rind — 

A  delicate  film  of  blue — 
Leave  them  alone  ; — I  can  find 

Better  apples  for  you. 

Those  are  the  Rhode  Island  greenings — 

Excellent  apples  for  pies  ; 
There  are  no  mystical  meanings 

In  fruit  of  that  color  and  size. 
They  are  too  coarse  and  too  juiceful ; 
They  are  too  large  and  too  useful. 

There  are  the  Baldwins  and  Flyers, 
Wrapped  in  their  beautiful  fires  ! 
Color  forks  up  from  their  stems 

As  if  painted  by  Flora, 
Or  as  out  from  the  pole  stream  the   flames 

Of  the  Northern  Aurora. 

Here  shall  our  quest  have  a  close  ; 
Fill  up  your  basket  with  those  ; 
Bite  through  their  vesture  of  flame, 

And  then  you  will  gather 
All  that  is  meant  by  the  name, 

"  Seek-no-farther  !  " 

DAVID. 

The  native  orchard's  fairest  trees, 

Wild  springing  on  the  hill, 
Bear  no  such  precious  fruits  as  these, 
And  never  will ; 

Till  axe  and  saw  and  pruning  knife 

Cut  from  them  every  bough, 
And  they  receive  a  gentler  life 

Than  crowns  them  now. 


BITTER-SWEET.  43 


And  Nature's  children,  evermore, 

Though  grown  to  stately  stature, 
Must  bear  the  fruit  their  fathers  bore — 
The  fruit  of  nature  ; 

Till  every  thrifty  vice  is  made 

The  shoulder  for  a  cion, 
Cut  from  the  bending  trees  that  shade 
The  hills  of  Zion. 

Sorrow  must  crop  each  passion-shoot, 

And  pain  each  lust  infernal, 
Or  human  life  can  bear  no  fruit 
To  life  eternal. 

For  angels  wait  on  Providence  ; 

And  mark  the  sundered  places, 

To  graft  with  gentlest  instruments 

The  heavenly  graces. 

RUTH. 

Well,  you're  a  curious  creature  ! 
You  should  have  been  a  preacher. 

But  look  at  that  bin  of  potatoes 
Grown  in  ail  singular  shapes — 
Red  and  in  clusters,  like  grapes, 

Or  more  like  tomatoes. 
Those  are  Merinoes,  I  guess  ; 

Very  prolific  and  cheap  ; 
They  make  an  excellent  mess 

For  a  cow,  or  a  sheep, 
And  are  good  for  the  table,  they  say, 
When  the  winter  has  passed  away. 

Those  are  my  beautiful  Carters  ; 
Every  one  doomed  to  be  martyrs 


44  BITTER-SWEET. 

To  the  eccentric  desire 
Of  Christian  people  to  skin  them, — 

Brought  to  the  trial  of  fire 
For  the  good  that  is  in  them ! 
Ivory  tubers — divide  one  ! 

Ivory  all  the  way  through  ! 
Never  a  hollow  inside  one  ; 

Never  a  core,  black  or  blue  f 

Ah,  you  should  taste  them  when  roasted ! 

(Chestnuts  are  not  half  so  good  ;) 
And  you  would  find  that  I've  boasted 

Less  than  I  should. 
They  make  the  meal  for  Sunday  noon  ; 

And,  if  ever  you  eat  one,  let  me  beg 

You  to  manage  it  just  as  you  do  an  egg. 
Take  a  pat  of  butter,  a  silver  spoon, 
And  wrap  your  napkin  round  the  shell  : 
Have  you  seen  a  humming-bird  probe  the  bell 
Of  a  white-lipped  morning-glory  ? 
Well,  that's  the  rest  of  the  story ! 
But  it's  very  singular,  surely, 
They  should  produce  so  poorly. 
Father  knows  that  I  want  them," 
So  he  continues  to  plant  them  ; 
But,  if  I  try  to  argue  the  question, 

He  scoffs,  as  a  thrifty  farmer  will  ; 
And  puts  me  down  with  the  stale  suggestion— 

"  Small  potatoes,  and  few  in  a  hill." 

DAVID. 

Thus  is  it  over  all  the  earth! 

That  which  we  call  the  fairest, 
And  prize  for  its  surpassing  worth, 
Is  always  rarest. 


BITTER-SWEET. 

Iron  is  heaped  in  mountain  piles, 

And  gluts  the  laggard  forges  ; 
But  gold-flakes  gleam  in  dim  denies 
And  lonely  gorges. 

The  snowy  marble  flecks  the  land 

With  heaped  and  rounded  ledges, 
But  diamonds  hide  within  the  sand 
Their  starry  edges. 

The  finny  armies  clog  the  twine 

That  sweeps  the  lazy  river, 
But  pearls  come  singly  from  the  brine, 
With  the  pale  diver. 

God  gives  no  value  unto  men 

Unmatched  by  meed  of  labor  ; 
And  Cost  of  Worth  has  ever  been 
The  closest  neighbor. 

Wide  is  the  gate  and  broad  the  way 

That  open  to  perdition, 
And  countless  multitudes  are  they 
Who  seek  admission. 

But  strait  the  gate,  the  path  unkind, 

That  lead  to  life  immortal, 
And  few  the  careful  feet  that  find 
The  hidden  portal. 

All  common  good  has  common  price  ; 

Exceeding  good,  exceeding ; 
Christ  bought  the  keys  of  Paradise 
By  cruel  bleeding ; 


46  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  every  soul  that  wins  a  place 

Upon  its  hills  of  pleasure, 
Must  give  its  all,  and  beg  for  grace 
To  fill  the  measure. 

Were  every  hill  a  precious  mine, 

And  golden  all  the  mountains ; 

Were  all  the  rivers  fed  with  wine 

By  tireless  fountains ; 

Life  would  be  ravished  of  its  zest, 

And  shorn  of  its  ambition, 
And  sink  into  the  dreamless  rest 
Of  inanition. 

Up  the  broad  stairs  that  Value  rears 
Stand  motives  beck'ning  earthward 
To  summon  men  to  nobler  spheres, 

And  lead  them  worthward. 

RUTH. 

I'm  afraid  to  show  you  anything  more  ; 

For  parsnips  and  art  are  so  very  long, 
That  the  passage  back  to  the  cellar- door 

Would  be  through  a  mile  of  song. 
But  Truth  owns  me  for  an  honest  teller ; 

And  if  the  honest  truth  be  told, 
I  am  indebted  to  you  and  the  cellar 

For  a  lesson  and  a  cold. 
And  one  or  the  other  cheats  my  sight ; 

(O  silly  girl !    for  shame  !) 
Barrels  are  hooped  with  rings  of  light, 

And  stopped  with  tongues  of  flame. 
Apples  have  conquered  original  sin, 

Manna  is  pickled  in  brine, 


BITTER-SWEET.  47 

Philosophy  fills  the  potato-bin, 

And  cider  will  soon  be  wine. 
So  crown  the  basket  with  mellow  fruit, 

And  brim  the  pitcher  with  pearls  ; 
And  we'll  see  how  the  old-time  dainties  suit 

The  old-time  boys  and  girls. 

[  They  ascend  the  stairs. 


SECOND   MOVEMENT. 

LOCALITY— A  Chamber. 
PRESENT— GRACE,  MARY,  and  the  BABY. 

THE   QUESTION  ILLUSTRATED   BY   EXPERIENCE. 

GRACE. 

[Si*£3' 

Hither,  Sleep  !     A  mother  wants  thee  ! 

Come  with  velvet  arms  ! 
Fold  the  baby  that  she  grants  thee 

To  thy  own  soft  charms  ! 

Bear  him  into  Dreamland  lightly  t 

Give  him  sight  of  flowers ! 
Do  not  bring  him  back  till  brightly 

Break  the  morning  hours ! 

Close  his  eyes  with  gentle  fingers ! 

Cross  his  hands  of  snow ! 
Tell  the  angels  where  he  lingers 

They  must  whisper  low  ! 

I  will  guard  thy  spell  unbroken 

If  thou  hear  my  call ; 
Come,  then,  Sleep!    I  wait  the  token 

Of  thy  downy  thrall. 

3 


5O  BITTER-SWEET. 

Now  I  see  his  sweet  lips  moving  ; 

He  is  in  thy  keep  ; 
Other  milk  the  babe  is  proving 

At  the  breast  of  sleep ! 

MARY. 

Sleep,  babe,  the  honeyed  sleep  of  innocence ! 

Sleep  like  a  bud  ;  for  soon  the  sun  of  life 

With  ardors  quick  and  passionate  shall  rise, 

And,  with  hot  kisses,  part  the  fragrant  lips — 

The  folded  petals  of  thy  soul !     Alas  ! 

What  feverish  winds  shall  tease  and  toss  thee,  then! 

What  pride  and  pain,  ambition  and  despair, 

Desire,  satiety,  and  all  that  fill 

With  misery  life's  fretful  enterprise, 

Shall  wrench  and  blanch  thee,  till  thou  fall  at  last, 

Joy  after  joy  down  fluttering  to  the  earth, 

To  be  apportioned  to  the  elements  ! 

I  marvel,  baby,  whether  it  were  ill 

That  he  who  planted  thee  should  pluck  thee  now, 

And  save  thee  from  the  blight  that  comes  on  all. 

I  marvel  whether  it  would  not  be  well 

That  the  frail  bud  should  burst  in  Paradise, 

On  the  full  throbbing  of  an  angel's  heart ! 

GRACE. 

Oh,  speak  not  thus  !    The  thought  is  terrible. 
He  is  my  all ;  and  yet,  it  sickens  me 
To  think  that  he  will  grow  to  be  a  man. 
If  he  were  not  a  boy ! 

MARY. 

Were  not  a  boy? 

,  That  wakens  other  thoughts.     Thank  God  for  that ! 
To  be  a  man,  if  aught,  is  privilege 


BITTER-SWEET.  5 1. 

Precious  and  peerless.     While  I  bide  content 

The  modest  lot  of  woman,  all  my  soul 

Gives  truest  manhood  humblest  reverence. 

It  is  a  great  and  god-like  thing  to  do ! 

'Tis  a  great  thing,  I  think,  to  be  a  man. 

Man  fells  the  forests,  ploughs  and  tills  the  fields, 

And  heaps  the  granaries  that  feed  the  world. 

At  his  behest  swift  Commerce  spreads  her  wings, 

And  tires  the  sinewy  sea-birds  as  she  flies, 

Fanning  the  solitudes  from  clime  to  clime. 

Smoke-crested  cities  rise  beneath  his  hand, 

And  roar  through  ages  with  the  din  of  trade. 

Steam  is  the  fleet-winged  herald  of  his  will, 

Joining  the  angel  of  the  Apocalypse 

Mid  sound  and  smoke  and  wond'rous  circumstance, 

And  with  one  foot  upon  the  conquered  sea, 

And  one  upon  the  subject  land,  proclaims 

That  space  shall  be  no  more.     The  lightnings  veil 

Their  'fiery  forms  to  wait  upon  his  thought, 

And  give  it  wing,  as  unseen  spirits  pause 

To  bear  to  God  the  burden  of  his  prayer. 

God  crowns  him  with  the  gift  of  eloquence, 

And  puts  a  harp  into  his  tuneful  hands, 

And  makes  him  both  his  prophet  and  his  priest. 

'Twas  in  his  form  the  great  Immanuel 

Revealed  himself  ;  the  Apostolic  Twelve, 

Like  those  who  since  have  ministered  the  Word, 

Were  men.     'Tis  a  great  thing  to  be  a  man. 

GRACE. 

And  fortunate  to  have  an  advocate 

Across  whose  memory  convenient  clouds 

Come  floating  at  convenient  intervals. 

The  harvest  fields  that  man  has  honored  most 

Are  those  where  human  life  is  reaped  like  grain. 


52  BITTER-SWEET. 

There  never  rose  a  mart,  nor  shone  a  sail, 

Nor  sprang  a  great  invention  into  birth, 

By  other  motive  than  man's  love  of  gold. 

It  is  for  wrong  that  he  is  eloquent ; 

For  lust  that  he  indites  his  sweetest  songs. 

Christ  was  betrayed  by  treason  of  a  man, 

And  scourged  and  hung  upon  a  tree  by  men  ; 

And  the  sad  women  who  were  at  his  cross, 

And  sought  him  early  at  the  sepulchre, 

And  since  that  day,  in  gentle  multitudes 

Have  loved  and  followed  him,  have  been  man's  slaves,- 

The  victims  of  his  power  and  his  desire. 

MARY. 

And  you,  a  wedded  wife — well  wedded,  too, 
Can  say  all  this,  and  say  it  bitterly  ! 

GRACE. 
Perhaps  because  a  wife  ;  perhaps  because — 

MARY. 

Hush,  Grace!     No  more!     I  beg  you,  say  no  more. 

Nay  !     I  will  leave  you  at  another  word  ; 

For  I  could  listen  to  a  blasphemy, 

Falling  from  bestial  lips,  with  lighter  chill 

Than  to  the  mad  complainings  of  a  soul 

Which  God  has  favored  as  he  favors  few. 

I  dare  not  listen  when  a  woman's  voice, 

Which  blessings  strive  to  smother,  flings  them  off 

In  mad  contempt.     I  dare  not  hear  the  words 

Whose  utterance  all  the  gentle  loves  dissuade 

By  kisses  which  are  reasons,  while  a  throng 

Of  friendships,  comforts,  and  sweet  chanties — 

The  almoners  of  the  All-Bountiful — 

With  folded  wings  stand  sadly  looking  on. 


HITTER- SWEET.  53 

Believe  me,  Grace,  the  pioneer  of  judgment — 

Ordained,  commissioned — is  Ingratitude  ; 

For  where  it  moves,  good  withers  ;  blessings  die  ; 

Till  a  clean  path  is  left  for  Providence, 

Who  never  sows  a  good  the  second  time 

Till  the  torn  bosom  of  the  graceless  soil 

Is  ready  for  the  seed. 

GRACE. 

Oh,  could  you  know 

The  anguish  of  my  heart,  you  would  not  chide  ! 
If  I  repine,  it  is  because  my  lot 
Is  not  the  blessed  thing  it  seems  to  you. 

0  Mary  !     Could  you  know  !     Could  you  but  know ! 

MARY. 

Then  why  not  tell  me  all?     You  know  me,  love, 
And  know  that  secrets  make  their  graves  with  me. 
So,  tell  me  all ;  for  I  do  promise  you 
Such  sympathy  as  God  through  suffering 
Has  given  me  power  to  grant  to  such  as  you. 

1  bought  it  dearly,  and  its  largess  waits 
The  opening  of  your  heart. 

GRACE. 

I  am  ashamed, — 

In  truth,  I  am  ashamed — to  tell  you  all. 
You  will  not  laugh  at  me  ? 

MARY. 

I  laugh  at  you? 

GRACE. 

Forgive  me,  Mary,  for  my  heart  is  weak ; 
Distrustful  of  itself  and  all  the  world. 


54  BITTER-SWEET. 

Ah,  well !     To  what  strange  issues  leads  our  life  ! 

It  seems  but  yesterday  that  you  were  brought 

To  this  old  house,  an  orphaned  little  girl, 

Whose  large  shy  eyes,  pale  cheeks,  and  shrinking  ways 

Filled  all  our  hearts  with  wonder,  as  we  stood 

And  stared  at  you,  until  your  heart  o'erfilled 

With  the  oppressive  strangeness,    and  you  wept. 

Yes,  I  remember  how  I  pitied  you — 

I  who  had  never  wept,  nor  even  sighed, 

Save  on  the  bosom  of  my  gentle  mother  ; 

For  my  quick  heart  caught  all  your  history 

When  with  a  hurried  step  you  sought  the  sun, 

And  pressed  your  eyes  against  the  window-pane 

That  God's  sweet  light  might  dry  them.     Well  I  knew, 

Though  all  untaught,  that  you  were  motherless. 

And  I  remember  how  I  followed  you, — 

Embraced  and  kissed  you — kissed  your  tears  away— 

Tears  that  came  faster,  till  they  bathed  the  lips 

That  would  have  sealed  their  flooded  fountain-heads ; 

And  then  we  wound  our  arms  around  each  other, 

And  passed  out — out  under  the  pleasant  sky, 

And  stood  among  the  lilies  at  the  door. 

I  gave  no  formal  comfort  ;  you,  no  thanks  ; 
For  tears  had  been  your  language,  kisses  mine, 
And  we  were  friends.     We  talked  about  our  dolls, 
And  all  the  pretty  playthings  we  possessed. 
Then  we  revealed,  with  childish  vanity, 
Our  little  stores  of  knowledge.     I  was  full 
Of  a  sweet  marvel  when  you  pointed  out 
The  yellow  thighs  of  bees  that,  half  asleep, 
Plundered  the  secrets  of  the  lily-bells, 
And  called  the  golden  pigment  honey-comb. 
And  your  black  eyes  were  opened  very  wide 
When  I  related  how,  one  sunny  day, 


BITTER-SWEET.  55 

I  found  a  well,  half-covered,  down  the  lane, 
That  was  so  deep  and  clear  that  I  could  see 
Straight  through  the  world,  into  another  sky  ! 

MARY. 

Do  you  remember  how  the  Guinea  hens 

Set  up  a  scream  upon  the  garden  wall, 

That  frightened  me  to  running,  when  you  screamed 

With  laughter  quite  as  loud  ? 

GRACE. 

Aye,  very  well ; 

But  better  still  the  scene  that  followed  all. 
Oh,  that  has  lingered  in  my  memory 
Like  that  divinest  dream  of  Raphael — 
The  Dresden  virgin  prisoned  in  a  print — 
That  watched  with  me  in  sickness  through  long  weeks, 
And  from  its  frame  upon  the  chamber- wall 
Breathed  constant  benedictions,  till  I  learned 
To  love  the  presence  like  a  Roman  saint. 

My  mother  called  us  in  ;    and  at  her  knee, 

Embracing  still,  we  stood,  and  felt  her  smite 

Shine  on  our  up-turned  faces  like  the  light 

Of  the  soft  summer  moon.     And  then  she  stooped  ; 

And  when  she  kissed  us,  I  could  see  the  tears 

Brimming  her  eyes.     O  sweet  experiment ! 

To  try  if  love  of  Jesus  and  of  me 

Could  make  our  kisses  equal  to  her  lips  ! 

Then  straight  my  prescient  heart  set  up  a  song, 

And  fluttered  in  my  bosom  like  a  bird. 

I  knew  a  blessing  was  about  to  fall, 

As  robins  know  the  coming  of  the  rain, 

And  bruit  the  joyous  secret,  ere  its  steps 

Are  heard  upon  the  mountain  tops.     I  knew 


56  BITTER-SWEET. 

You  were  to  be  my  sister  ;    and  my  heart 

Was  almost  bursting  with  its  love  and  pride. 

I  could  not  wait  to  hear  the  kindly  words 

Our  mother  spoke    -her  counsels  and  commands — 

For  you  were  mine — my  sister  !     So  I  tore 

Your  clinging  hand  from  hers  with  rude  constraint, 

And  took  you  to  my  chamber,  where  I  played 

With  you,  in  selfish  sense  of  property, 

The  whole  bright  afternoon. 

And  here  again, 

Within  this  same  old  chamber  we  are  met. 
We  told  our  secrets  to  each  other  then  ; 
Thus  let  us  tell  them  now  ;    and  you  shall  be 
To  my  grief-burdened  soul  what  you  have  said, 
So  many  times,  that  I  have  been  to  yours. 

MARY. 

Alas !     I  never  meant  to  tell  my  tale 
To  other  ear  than  God's  ;    but  you  have  claims 
Upon  my  confidence, — claims  just  rehearsed, 
And  other  claims  which  you  have  never  known. 

GRACE. 

And  other  claims  which  I  have  never  known ! 

You  speak  in  riddles,  love.     I  only  know 

You  grew  to  womanhood,  were  beautiful, 

Were  loved  and  wooed,  were  married  and  were  blest  !- 

That  after  passage  of  mysterious  years 

We  heard  sad  stories  of  your  misery, 

And  rumors  of  desertion  ;    but  your  pen 

Revealed  no  secrets  of  your  altered  life. 

Enough  for  me  that  you  are  here  to-night, 

And  have  an  ear  for  sorrow,  and  a  heart 

Which  disappointment  has  inhabited. 

My  history  you  know.     A  twelvemonth  since 


BITTER-SWEET.  57 

This  fearful,  festive  night,  and  in  this  house, 

I  gave  my  hand  to  one  whom  I  believed 

To  be  the  noblest  man  God  ever  made  ; — 

A  man  who  seemed  to  my  infatuate  heart 

Heaven's  chosen  genius,  through  whose  tuneful  soul 

The  choicest  harmonies  of  life  should  flow, 

Growing  articulate  upon  his  lips 

In  numbers  to  enchant  a  willing  world. 

I  cannot  tell  you  of  the  pride  that  filled 

My  bosom,  as  I  marked  his  manly  form, 

And  read  his  soul  through  his  effulgent  eyes, 

And  heard  the  wondrous  music  of  his  voice, 

That  swept  the  chords  of  feeling  in  all  hearts 

With  such  divine  persuasion  as  might  grow 

Under  the  transit  of  an  angel's  hand. 

And,  then,  to  think  that  I,  a  farmer's  child, 

Should  be  the  woman  culled  from  all  the  world 

To  be  that  man's  companion, — to  abide 

The  nearest  soul  to  such  a  soul — to  sit 

Close  by  the  fountain  of  his  peerless  life — 

The  welling  centre  of  his  loving  thoughts — 

And  drink,  myself,  the  sweetest  and  the  best, — 

To  lay  my  head  upon  his  breast,  and  feel 

That  of  all  precious  burdens  it  had  borne 

That  was  most  precious — Oh !    my  heart  was  wild 

With  the  delirium  of  happiness — 

But,  Mary,  you  are  weeping! 

MARY. 

Mark  it  not. 

Your  words  wake  memories  which  you  may  guess, 
And  thoughts  which  you  may  some  time  know — not  now. 

GRACE. 

Well,  we  were  married,  as  I  said  ;    and  I 
3* 


58  BITTER-SWEET. 

Was  not  unthankful  utterly,  I  think  ; 

Though,  if  the  awful  question  had  come  then, 

And  stood  before  me  with  a  brow  severe 

And  steady  ringer,  bidding  me  decide 

Which  of  the  two  I  loved  the  more,  the  God 

Who  gave  my  husband  to  me,  or  his  gift, 

I  know  I  should  have  groaned,  and  shut  my  eyes, 

We  passed  a  honeymoon  whose  atmosphere, 

Flooded  with  inspiration,  and  embraced 

By  a  wide  sky  set  full  of  starry  thoughts, 

And  constellated  visions  of  delight, 

Still  wraps  me  in  my  dreams — itself  a  dream, 

The  full  moon  waned  at  last,  and  in  my  sky, 

With  horn  inverted,  gave  its  sign  of  tears  ; 

And  then,  when  wasted  to  a  skeleton, 

It  sank  into  a  heaving  sea  of  tears 

That  caught  its  tumult  from  my  sighing  soul. 

My  husband,  who  had  spent  whole  months  with  me, 

Till  he  was  wedded  to  my  every  thought, 

Left  me  through  dreary  hours, — nay,  days, — alone  ! 

He  pleaded  business — business  day  and  night ; 

Leaving  me  with  a  formal  kiss  at  morn, 

And  meeting  me  with  strange  reserve  at  eve  ; 

And  I  could  mark  the  sea  of  tenderness 

Upon  whose  beach  I  had  sat  down  for  life, 

Hoping  to  feel  for  ever,  as  at  first, 

The  love-breeze  from  its  billows,  and  to  clasp 

With  open  arms  the  silver  surf  that  ran 

To  wreck  itself  upon  my  bosom,  ebb, 

Day  after  day  receding,  till  the  sand 

Grew  dry  and  hot,  and  the  old  hulls  appeared 

Of  hopes  sent  out  upon  that  faithless  main 

Since  woman  loved,  and  he  she  loved  was  false. 

Night  after  night  I  sat  the  evening  out, 


BITTER-SWEET.  59 

And  heard  the  clock  tick  on  the  mantel-tree 
Till  it  grew  irksome  to  me,  and  I  grudged 
The  careless  pleasures  of  the  kitchen  maids 
Whose  distant  laughter  shocked  the  lapsing  hours. 

MARY. 

But  did  your  husband  never  tell  the  cause 
Of  this  neglect  ? 

GRACE. 

Never  an  honest  word. 

He  told  me  he  was  writing ;    and,  at  home, 
Sat  down  with  heart  absorbed  and  absent  look. 
I  was  offended,  and  upbraided  him. 
I  knew  he  had  a  secret,  and  that  from 
The  centre  of  its  closely  coiling  folds 
A  cunning  serpent's  head,  with  forked  tongue, 
Swayed  with  a  double  story — one  for  me, 
And  one  for  whom  I  knew  not — whom  he  knew. 
His  words,  which  wandered  first  as  carelessly 
As  the  free  footsteps  of  a  boy,  were  trained 
To  the  stern  paces  of  a  sentinel 
Guarding  a  prison  door,  and  never  tripped 
With  a  suggestion. 

I  despaired  at  last 

Of  winning  what  I  sought  by  wiles  and  prayers  ; 
So,  through  long  nights  of  sleeplessness  I  lay, 
And  held  my  ear  beside  his  silent  lips — 
An  eager  cup — ready  to  catch  the  gush 
Of  the  pent  waters,  if  a  dream-swung  rod 
Should  smite  his  bosom.     It  was  all  in  vain. 
And  thus  months  passed  away,  and  all  the  while 
Another  heart  was  beating  under  mine. 
May  Heaven  forgive  me !   but  I  grieved  the  charms 
The  unborn  thing  was  stealing,  for  I  felt 


GO  BITTER-SWEET. 

That  in  my  insufficiency  of  power 
I  had  no  charm  to  lose. 

MARY. 

And  did  he  not, 

In  this  most  tender  trial  of  your  heart, 
Turn  in  relenting  ? — give  you  sympathy  ? 

GRACE. 

No — yes!     Perhaps  he  pitied  me,  and  that 

Indeed  was  very  pitiful ;    for  what 

Has  love  to  do  with  pity  ?     When  a  wife 

Has  sunk  so  hopelessly  in  the  regard 

Of  him  she  loves  that  he  can  pity  her, — 

Has  sunk  so  low  that  she  may  only  share 

The  tribute  which  a  mute  humanity 

Bestows  on  those  whom  Providence  has  struck 

With  helpless  poverty,  or  foul  disease  ; 

She  may  be  pitied,  both  by  earth  and  heaven, 

Because  he  pities  her.     A  pitied  child 

That  begs  its  bread  from  door  to  door  is  blest  ; 

A  wife  who  begs  for  love  and  confidence, 

And  gets  but  alms  from  pity,  is  accurst. 

Well,  time  passed  on  ;  and  rumor  came  at  last 
To  tell  the  story  of  my  husband's  shame 
And  my  dishonor.     He  was  seen  at  night, 
Walking  in  lonely  streets  with  one  whose  eyes 
Were  blacker  than  the  night, — whose  little  hand 
Was  clinging  to  his  arm.     Both  were  absorbed 
In  the  half-whispered  converse  of  the  time  ; 
And  both,  as  if  accustomed  to  the  path, 
Turned  down  an  alley,  climbed  a  flight  of  steps, 
Entered  a  door,  and  closed  it  after  them — 
A  door  of  adamant  'twixt  hope  and  me. 


BITTER-SWEET.  6l 

I  had  my  secret  ;  and  I  kept  it,  too. 

I  knew  his  haunt,  and  it  was  watched  for  me, 

Till  doubt  and  prayers  for  doubt, — pale  flowers 

I  nourished  with  my  tears — were  crushed 

By  the  relentless  hand  of  Certainty. 

Oh,  Mary  !  Mary !     Those  were  fearful  days. 
My  wrongs  and  all  their  shameful  history 
Were  opened  to  me  daily,  leaf  by  leaf, 
Though  he  had  only  shown  their  title-page  : 
That  page  was  his  ;  the  rest  were  in  my  heart. 
I  knew  that  he  had  left  my  home  for  her's  ; 
I  knew  his  nightly  labor  was  to  feed 
Other  than  me  : — that  he  was  loaded  down 
With  cares  that  were  the  price  of  sinful  love. 

MARY. 

Grace,  in  your  heart  do  you  believe  all  this  ? 
I  fear — I  know — you  do  your  husband  wrong. 
He  is  not  competent  for  treachery. 
He  is  too  good,  too  noble,  to  desert 
The  woman  whom  he  only  loves  too  well, 
You  love  him  not ! 

GRACE. 

I  love  him  not  ?     Alas  ! 
I  am  more  angry  with  myself  than  him 
That,  spite  his  falsehood  to  his  marriage  vows, 
And  spite  my  hate,  I  love  the  traitor  still. 
I  love  him  not  ?     Why  am  I  here  to-night — 
Here  where  my  girlhood's  withered  hopes  are  strewn 
Through  every  room  for  him  to  trample  on — 
But  in  my  pride  to  show  him  to  you  all, 
With  the  dear  child  that  publishes  a  love 
That  blessed  me  once,  e'en  if  it  curse  me  now  ? 


62  BITTER-SWEET. 

You  know  I  do  my  husband  wrong !     You  think, 

Because  he  can  talk  smoothly,  and  befool 

A  simple  ear  with  pious  sophistries, 

He  must  be  e'en  the  saintly  man  he  seems. 

We  heard  him  talk  to-night ;  it  was  done  well. 

I  saw  the  triumph  of  his  argument, 

And  I  was  proud,  though  full  of  spite  the  while. 

His  stuff  was  meant  for  me  ;  and,  with  intent, 

For  selfish  purpose,  or  in  irony, 

He  tossed  me  bitterness,  and  called  it  sweet. 

My  heart  rebelled,  and  now  you  know  the  cause 

Of  my  harsh  words  to  him. 

MARY. 

'Tis  very  sad ! 

Oh  very — very  sad  !     Pray  you  go  on ! 
Who  is  this  woman  ? 

GRACE. 

I  have  never  learned. 

I  only  know  she  stole  my  husband's  heart, 
And  made  me  very  wretched.     I  suppose 
That  at  the  time  my  little  babe  was  born, 
She  went  away  ;  for  David  was  at  home 
For  many  days.     That  pain  was  bliss  to  me — 
I  need  no  argument  to  teach  me  that — 
Which  caused  neglect  of  her,  and  gave  offence. 
Since  then,  he  has  not  where  to  go  from  me  ; 
And,  loving  well  his  child,  he  stays  at  home. 

So  he  lugs  round  his  secret,  and  I  mine. 

I  call  him,  husband  ;  and  he  calls  me,  wife  ; 

And  I,  who  once  was  like  an  April  day, 

That  finds  quick  tears  in  every  cloud,  have  steeled 

My  heart  against  my  fate,  and  now  am  calm. 


BITTER-SWEET.  63 

I  will  live  on  ;  and  though  these  simple  folk 
Who  call  me  sister  understand  me  not, 
It  matters  little.     There  is  one  who  does  ; 
And  he  shall  have  no  liberty  of  love 
By  any  word  of  mine.     'Tis  woman's  lot, 
And  man's  most  weak  and  wicked  wantonness. 
Mine  is  like  other  husbands,  I  suppose ; 
No  worse — no  better. 

MARY. 

Ask  you  sympathy 
Of  such  as  I  ?     I  cannot  give  it  you, 
For  you  have  shut  me  from  the  privilege. 

GRACE. 

I  asked  it  once ;  you  gave  me  unbelief. 

I  had  no  choice  but  to  grow  hard  again. 

'Tis  my  misfortune  and  my  misery 

That  every  hand  whose  friendly  ministry 

My  poor  heart  craves,  is  held — withheld — by  him  ; 

And  I  must  freeze  that  I  may  stand  alone. 

MARY. 

And  so,  because  one  man  is  false,  or  you 
Imagine  him  to  be,  all  men  are  false  ; 
Do  I  speak  rightly  ? 

GRACE. 

Have  it  your  own  way. 
Men  fit.  to  love,  and  fitted  to  be  loved, 
Are  prone  to  falsehood.     I  will  not  gainsay 
The  common  virtue  of  the  common  herd. 
I  prize  it  as  I  do  the  goodish  men 
Who  hold  the  goodish  stuff,  and  know  it  nc-t. 
These  serve  to  fill  an  easy-going  world, 
And  that  to  clothe  it  with  complacency. 


64  BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

I  had  not  thought  misanthropy  like  this 
Could  lodge  with  you  ;  so  I  must  e'en  confess 
A  tale  which  never  passed  my  lips  before, 
Nor  sent  its  flush  to  any  cheek  but  mine. 
In  this,  I'll  prove  my  friendship,  if  I  lose 
The  friendship  which  demands  the  sacrifice. 

I  have  come  back,  a  worse  than  widowed  wife  ; 

Yet  I  went  out  with  dream  as  bright  as  yours, — 

Nay,  brighter, — for  the  birds  were  singing  then, 

And  apple-blossoms  drifted  on  the  ground 

Where  snow-flakes  fell  and  flew  when  you  were  wed. 

The  skies  were  soft ;  the  roses  budded  full ; 

The  meads  and  swelling  uplands  fresh  and  green ; — 

The  very  atmosphere  was  full  of  love. 

It  was  no  girlish  carelessness  of  heart 

That  kept  my  eyes  from  tears,  as  I  went  forth 

From  this  dear  shelter  of  the  orphan  child. 

I  felt  that  God  was  smiling  on  my  lot, 

And  made  the  airs  his  angels  to  convey 

To  every  sense  and  sensibility 

The  message  of  his  favor.     Every  sound 

Was  music  to  me  ;  every  sight  was  peace  ; 

And  breathing  was  the  drinking  of  perfume. 

I  said,  content,  and  full  of  gratitude, 

"This  is  as  God  would  have  it  ;  and  he  speaks 

These  pleasant  languages  to  tell  me  so." 

I 
But  I  had  no  such  honeymoon  as  yours. 

A  few  brief  days  of  happiness,  and  then 
The  dream  was  over.     I  had  married  one 
Who  was  the  sport  of  vagrant  impulses. 
We  had  not  been  a  fortnight  wed,  when  he 
Came  home  to  me  with  brandy  in  his  brain — 


BITTER-SWEET.  6$ 

A  maudlin  fool — for  love  like  mine  to  hide 

As  if  he  were  an  unclean  beast.     O  Grace  ! 

I  cannot  paint  the  horrors  of  that  night. 

My  heart,  till  then  serene,  and  safely  kept 

In  Trust's  strong  citadel,  quaked  all  night  long, 

As  tower  and  bastion  fell  before  the  rush 

Of  fierce  convictions  ;  and  the  tumbling  walls 

Boomed  with  dull  throbs  of  ruin  through  my  brain. 

And  there  were  palaces  that  leaned  on  this  — 

Castles  of  air,  in  long  and  glittering  lines, 

Which  melted  into  air,  and  pierced  the  blue 

That  marks  the  star-strewn  vault  of  heaven  ; — all  fell, 

With  a  faint  crash  like  that  which  scares  the  soul 

When  dissolution  shivers  through  a  dream 

Smitten  by  nightmare, — fell  and  faded  all 

To  utter  nothingness  ;  and  when  the  morn 

Flamed  up  the  East,  and  with  its  crimson  wings 

Brushed  out  the  paling  stars  that  all  the  night 

In  silent,  slow  procession,  one  by  one, 

Had  gazed  upon  me  through  the  open  sash, 

And  passed  along,  it  found  me  desolate. 

The  stupid  dreamer  at  my  side  awoke, 

And  with  such  helpless  anguish  as  they  feel 

Who  know  that  they  are  weak  as  well  as  vile. 

I  saw,  through  all  his  forward  promises, 

Excuses,  prayers,  and  pledges  that  were  oaths 

(What  he,  poor  boaster,  thought  I  could  not  see) 

That  he  was  shorn  of  will,  and  that  his  heart 

Was  as  defenceless  as  a  little  child's  ; — 

That  underneath  his  fair  good  fellowship 

He  was  debauched,  and  dead  in  love  with  sin  ;— 

That  love  of  me  had  made  him  what  I  loved, — 

That  I  could  only  hold  him  till  the  wave 

Of  some  o'erwhelming  impulse  should  sweep  in, 


66  BITTER-SWEET. 

To  lift  his  feet  and  bear  him  from  my  arms. 
I  felt  that  morn,  when  he  went  trembling  forth, 
With  bloodshot  eyes  and  forehead  hot  with  woe, 
That  thenceforth  strife  would  be  'twixt  Hell  and  me- 
The  odds  against  me — for  my  husband's  soul. 

GRACE. 

Poor  dove  !     Poor  Mary  !     Have  you  suffered  thus  ? 
You  had  not  even  pride  to  keep  you  up. 
Were  he  my  husband,  I  had  left  him  then — 
The  ingrate  ! 

MARY. 

Not  if  you  had  loved  as  I  ; 
Yet  what  you  know  is  but  a  bitter  drop 
Of  the  full  cup  of  gall  that  I  have  drained. 
Had  he  left  me  unstained,— had  I  rebelled 
Against  the  influence  by  which  he  sought 
To  bring  me  to  a  compromise  with  him, — 
To  make  my  shrinking  soul  meet  his  half  way, — 
It  had  been  better  ;    but  he  had  an  art, 
When  appetite  or  passion  moved  in  him, 
That  clothed  his  sins  with  fair  apologies, 
And  smoothed  the  wrinkles  of  a  haggard  guilt 
With  the  good-natured  hand  of  charity. 
He  knew  he  was  a  fool,  he  said,  and  said  again  ; 
But  human  nature  would  be  what  it  was, 
And  life  had  never  zest  enough  to  bear 
Too  much  dilution  ;  those  who  work  like  slaves 
Must  have  their  days  of  frolic  and  of  fun. 
He  doubted  whether  God  would  punish  sin  ; 
God  was,  in  fact,  too  good  to  punish  sin  ; 
For  sin  itself  was  a  compounded  thing, 
With  weakness  for  its  prime  ingredient. 
And  thus  he  fooled  a  heart  that  loved  him  well ; 


BITTER-SWEET. 

And  it  went  toward  his  heart  by  slow  degrees, 
Till  Virtue  seemed  a  frigid  anchorite, 
And  Vice,  a  jolly  fellow — bad  enough,- 
But  not  so  bad  as  Christian  people  think. 

This  was  the  cunning  work  of  months — nay,  years  ; 

And,  meantime,  Edward  sank  from  bad  to  worse. 

But  he  had  conquered.     Wine  was  on  his  board, 

Without  my  protest — with  a  glass  for  me  ! 

His  boon  companions  came  and  went,  and  made 

My  home  their  rendezvous  with  my  consent. 

The  doughty  oath  that  shocked  my  ears  at  first, 

The  doubtful  jest  that  meant,  or  might  not  mean, 

That  which  should  set  a  woman's  brow  aflame, 

Became  at  last  (oh,  shame  of  womanhood !) 

A  thing  to  frown  at  with  a  covert  smile  ; 

A  thing  to  smile  at  with  a  decent  frown  ; 

A  thing  to  steal  a  grace  from,  as  I  feigned 

The  innocence  of  deaf  unconsciousness. 

And  I  became  a  jester.     I  could  jest 

In  a  wild  way  on  sacred  things  and  themes  ; 

And  I  have  thought  that  in  his  better  moods 

My  husband  shrank  with  horror  from  the  work 

Which  he  had  wrought  in  me. 

I  do  not  know 

If,  during  all  these  downward-tending  years, 
Edward  kept  well  his  faith  with  me.     I  know 
He  used  to  tell  me,  in  his  boastful  way, 
How  he  had  broke  the  hearts  of  pretty  maids, 
And  that  if  he  were  single — well-a-day  ! 
The  time  was  past  for  thinking  upon  that ! 
And  I  had  heart  to  toss  the  badinage 
Back  in  his  teeth,  with  pay  of  kindred  coin  ; 
And  tell  him  lies  to  stir  his  bestial  mirth  ; 


68  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  make  my  boast  of  conquests  ;  and  pretend 
That  the  true  heart  I  had  bestowed  on  him 
Had  flown,  and  left  him  but  an  empty  hand. 

I  had  some  days  of  pain  and  penitence. 
I  saw  where  all  must  end.     I  saw,  too  well, 
Edward  was  growing  idle, — that  his  form 
Was  gathering  disgustful  corpulence, — 
That  he  was  going  down,  and  dragging  me 
To  shame  and  ruin,  beggary  and  death. 
But  judgment  came,  and  overshadowed  us  ; 
And  one  quick  bolt  shot  from  the  awful  cloud, 
Severed  the  tie  that  bound  two  worthless  lives. 
What  God  hath  joined  together,  God  may  part,- 
Grace,  have  you  thought  of  that  ? 

GRACE. 

You  scare  me,  Mary ! 

Nay  !     Do  not  turn  on  me  with  such  a  look ! 
Its  dread  suggestion  gives  my  heart  a  pang 
That  stops  its  painful  beating. 

MARY. 

Let  it  pass ! 

One  morn  we  woke  with  the  first  flush  of  light, 
Our  windows  jarring  with  the  cannonade 
That  ushered  in  the  nation's  festal  day. 
The  village  streets  were  full  of  men  and  boys, 
And  resonant  with  rattling  mimicry 
Of  the  black-throated  monsters  on  the  hill, — 
A  crashing,  crepitating  war  of  fire, — 
And  as  we  listened  to  the  fitful  feud, 
Dull  detonations  came  from  far  away, 
Pulsing  along  the  fretted  atmosphere, 


BITTER-SWEET.  69 

To  tell  that  in  the  ruder  villages 

The  day  had  noisy  greeting,  as  in  ours. 

I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  then,  and  there, 

I  felt  a  sinking  sadness,  passing  tears — 

A  dark  foreboding  I  could  not  dissolve, 

Nor  drive  away.     But  when,  next  morn,  I  woke 

In  the  sweet  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  day. 

And  found  myself  alone,  I  knew  that  hearts 

Which  once  have  been  God's  temple,  and  in  which 

Something  divine  still  lingers,  feel  the  throb 

Along  the  lines  that  bind  them  to  The  Throne 

When  judgment  issues  ;    and,  though  dumb  and  blind, 

Shudder  and  faint  with  prophecies  of  ill. 

How — by  what  cause — calamity  should  come, 

I  could  not  guess  ;    that  it  was  imminent, 

Seemed  just  as  certain  as  the  morning's  dawn. 

We  were  to  have  a  gala  day,  indeed. 

There  were  to  be  processions  and  parades, 

A  great  oration  in  a  mammoth  tent, 

With  dinner  following,  and  toast  and  speech 

By  all  the  wordy  magnates  of  the  town  ; 

A  grand  balloon  ascension  afterwards  ; 

And,  in  the  evening,  fireworks  on  the  hill. 

I  knew  that  drink  would  flow  from  morn  till  night 

In  a  wild  maelstrom,  circling  slow  around 

The  village  rim,  in  bright  careering  waves, 

But  growing  turbulent,  and  changed  to  ink 

Around  the  village  centre,  till,  at  last, 

The  whirling,  gurgling  vortex  would  engulf 

A  maddened  multitude  in  drunkenness. 

And  this  was  in  my  thought  (the  while  my  heart 

Was  palpitating  with  its  nameless  fear), 

As,  wrapped  in  vaguest  dreams,  and  purposeless, 


70  BITTER-SWEET. 

I  laced  my  shoe  and  gazed  upon  the  sky. 
Then  strange  determination  stirred  in  me  ; 
And,  turning  sharply  on  my  chair,  I  said, 
"Edward,  where'er  you  go  to-day,  I  go!" 

If  I  had  smitten  him  upon  the  face, 

It  had  not  tingled  with  a  hotter  flame. 

He  turned  upon  me  with  a  look  of  hate  — 

A  something  worse  than  anger — and,  with  oaths, 

Raved  like  a  fiend,  and  cursed  me  for  a  fool. 

But  I  was  firm  ;    he  could  not  shake  my  will ; 

So,  through  the  morning,  until  afternoon, 

He  stayed  at  home,  and  drank  and  drank  again, 

Watching  the  clock,  and  pacing  up  and  down, 

Until,  at  length,  he  came  and  sat  by  me, 

To  try  his  hackneyed  tricks  of  blandishment. 

He  had  not  meant,  he  said,  to  give  offence  ; 

But  women  in  a  crowd  were  out  of  place. 

He  wished  to  see  the  aeronauts  embark, 

And  meet  some  friends  ;    but  there  would  be  a  throng 

Of  boys  and  drunken  boors  around  the  car, 

And  I  should  not  enjoy  it ;    more  than  this, 

The  rise  would  be  a  finer  spectacle 

At  home  than  on  the  ground.     I  gave  assent, 

And  he  went  out.     Of  course,  I  followed  him  ; 

For  I  had  learned  to  read  him,  and  I  knew 

There  was  some  precious  scheme  of  sin  on  foot. 

The  crowd  was  heavy,  and  his  form  was  lost 
Quick  as  it  touched  the  mass  ;  but  I  pressed  on, 
Wild  shouts  and  laughter  punishing  my  ears, 
Till  I  could  see  the  bloated,  breathing  cone, 
As  if  it  were  some  monster  of  the  sky 
Caught  by  a  net  and  fastened  to  the  earth — 
A  butt  for  jeers  to  all  the  merry  mob. 


BITTER-SWEET. 

But  I  was  distant  still ;  and  if  a  man 
In  mad  impatience  tore  a  passage  from 
The  crowd  that  pressed  upon  him,  or  a  girl, 
Frightened  or  fainting,  was  allowed  escape, 
I  slid  like  water  to  the  vacant  space, 
And  thus,  by  deftly  won  advances,  gained 
The  stand  I  coveted. 


We  waited  long ; 

And  as  the  curious  gazers  stood  and  talked 
About  the  diverse  currents  of  the  air, 
And  wondered  where  the  daring  voyagers 
Would  find  a  landing-place,  a  young  man  said, 
In  words  intended  for  a  spicy  jest, 
A  man  and  woman  living  in  the  town 
Had  taken  passage  overland  for  hell ! 


Then  at  a  distance  rose  a  scattering  shout 

That  fixed  the  vision  of  the  multitude, 

Standing  on  eager  tiptoe,  and  afar 

I  saw  the  crowd  give  way,  and  make  a  path 

For  the  pale  heroes  of  the  crazy  hour. 

Hats  were  tossed  wildly  as  they  struggled  on, 

And  the  gap  closed  behind  them,  till,  at  length, 

They  stood  within  the  ring.     Oh,  damning  sight ! 

The  woman  was  a  painted  courtezan  ; 

The  man,  my  husband!     I  was  dumb  as  death. 

My  teeth  were  clenched  together  like  a  vice, 

And  every  heavy  heart-throb  was  a  chill. 

But  there  I  stood,  and  saw  the  shame  go  on. 

They  took  their  seats,  the  signal  gun  was  fired  ; 

The  cords  were  loosed,  and  then  the  billowy  bulk 

Shot  toward  the  zenith  ! 


/2  BITTER-SWEET. 

Never  bent  the  sky 

With  a  more  cloudless  depth  of  blue  than  then ; 
And,  as  they  rose,  I  saw  his  faithless  arm 
Slide  o'er  her  shoulder,  and  her  dizzy  head 
Drop  on  his  breast.     Then  I  became  insane. 
I  felt  that  I  was  struggling  with  a  dream — 
A  horrid  phantasm  I  could  not  shake  off. 
The  hollow  sky  was  swinging  like  a  bell ; 
The  silken  monster  swinging  like  its  tongue  ; 
And  as  it  reeled  from  side  to  side,  the  roar 
Of  voices  round  me  rang,  and  rang  again, 
Tolling  the  dreadful  knell  of  my  despair. 


At  the  last  moment  I  could  trace  his  form, 

Edward  leaned  over  from  his  giddy  seat, 

And  tossed  out  something  on  the  air.      I  saw 

The  little  missive  fluttering  slowly  down, 

And  stretched  my  hand  to  catch  it,  for  I  knew, 

Or  thought  I  knew,  that  it  would  come  to  me. 

And  it  did  come  to  me — as  if  it  slid 

Upon  the  cord  that  bound  my  heart  to  his — 

Strained  to  its  utmost  tension — snapped  at  last. 

I  marked  it  as  it  fell.     It  was  a  rose. 

I  grasped  it  madly  as  it  struck  my  hand, 

And  buried  all  its  thorns  within  my  palm  ; 

But  the  fierce  pain  released  my  prisoned  voice, 

And,  with  a  shriek,  I  staggered,  swooned,  and  fell. 


That  night  was  brushed  from  life.     A  passing  friend 
Directed  those  who  bore  me  rudely  off; 
And  I  was  carried  to  my  home,  and  laid 
Entranced  upon  my  bed.     The  Sabbath  morn 
That  followed  all  this  din  ami  devilry 


BITTER-SWEET.  73 

Swung  noiseless  wide  its  doors  of  yellow  light, 

And  in  the  hallowed  stillness  I  awoke. 

My  heart  was  still ;    I  could  not  stir  a  hand. 

I  thought  that  I  was  dying,  or  was  dead, — 

That  I  had  slipped  through  smooth  unconsciousness 

Into  the  everlasting  silences. 

I  could  not  speak ;    but  winning  strength,  at  last, 

I  turned  my  eyes  to  seek  for  Edward's  face, 

And  saw  an  unpressed  pillow.     He  was  gone  ! 

I  was  oppressed  with  awful  sense  of  loss  ; 

And,  as  a  mother,  by  a  turbid  sea 

That  has  engulfed  her  fairest  child,  sits  down 

And  moans  over  the  waters,  and  looks  out 

With  curious  despair  upon  the  waves, 

Until  she  marks  a  lock  of  floating  hair, 

And  by  its  threads  of  gold  draws  slowly  in, 

And  clasps  and  presses  to  her  frenzied  breast 

The  form  it  has  no  power  to  warm  again, 

So  I,  beside  the  sea  of  memory, 

Lay  feebly  moaning,  yearning  for  a  clew 

By  which  to  reach  my  own  extinguished  life. 

It  came.     A  burning  pain  shot  through  my  palm, 

And  thorns  awoke  what  thorns  had  put  to  sleep. 

It  all  came  back  to  me — the  roar,  the  rush, 

The  up-turned  faces,  the  insane  hurras, 

The  skyward  shooting  spectacle,  the  shame — 

And  then  I  swooned  again. 

GRACE. 

But  was  he  killed  ? 

Did  his  foolhardy  venture  end  in  wreck  ? 
Or  did  it  end  in  something  worse  than  wreck  ? 
Surely,  he  came  again  ! 
4 


74  BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

To  me,  no  more. 

He  had  his  reasons,  and  I  knew  them  soon  ; 
But,  first,  the  fire  enkindled  in  my  brain 
Burnt  through  long  weeks  of  fever — burnt  my  frame- 
Until  it  lay  upon  the  sheet  as  white 
As  the  pale  ashes  of  a  wasted  coal. 
Then,  when  strength  came  to  me,  and  I  could  sit, 
Braced  by  the  double  pillows  that  were  mine, 
A  kind  friend  took  my  hand,  and  told  me  all. 

The  day  that  Edward  left  me  was  the  last 

He  could  have  been  my  husband  ;    for  the  next 

Disclosed  his  infamy  and  my  disgrace. 

He  was  a  thief,  and  had  been  one,  for  years, — 

Defrauding  those  whose  gold  he  held  in  trust ; 

And  he  was  ruined — ruined  utterly. 

The  very  bed  I  sat  on  was  not  his, 

Nor  mine,  except  by  tender  charity. 

A  guilty  secret  menacing  behind, 

A  guilty  passion  burning  in  his  heart, 

And,  by  his  side,  a  guilty  paramour, 

He  seized  upon  this  reckless  whim,  and  fled 

From  those  he  knew  would  curse  him  ere  he  slept. 

My  cup  was  filled  with  wormwood  ;    and  it  grew 

Bitter  and  still  more  bitter,  day  by  day, 

Changing  from  shame  and  hate,  to  stern  revenge. 

Life  had  no  more  for  me.     My  home  was  lost  ; 

My  heart  unfitted  to  return  to  this  ; 

And,  reckless  of  the  future,  I  went  forth — 

A  woman  stricken,  maddened,  desperate. 

I  sought  the  city  with  as  sure  a  scent 

As  vultures  track  a  carcass  through  the  air. 

I  knew  him  there,  delivered  up  to  sin, 


BITTER-SWEET. 

And  longed  to  taunt  him  with  his  infamy, — 
To  haunt  his  haunts  ;    to  sting  his  perjured  soul 
With  sharp  reproaches  ;    and  to  scare  his  eyes 
With  visions  of  his  work  upon  my  face. 

But  God  had  other  means  than  my  revenge 
To  humble  him,  and  other  thought  for  me. 
I  saw  him  only  once  ;    we  did  not  meet ; 
There  was  a  street  between  us  ;    yet  it  seemed 
Wide  as  the  unbridged  gulf  that  yawns  between 
The  rich  man  and  the  beggar. 

'Twas  at  dawn. 

I  had  arisen  from  the  sleepless  bed 
Which  my  scant  means  had  purchased,  and  gone  forth 
To  taste  the  air,  and  cool  my  burning  brow. 
I  wandered  on,  not  knowing  where  I  went, 
Nor  caring  whither.     There  were  few  astir ; 
The  market  wagons  lumbered  slowly  in, 
Piled  high  with  carcasses  of  slaughtered  lambs, 
Baskets  of  unhusked  corn,  and  mint,  and  all 
The  fresh,  green  things  that  grow  in  country  fields. 
I  read  the  signs — the  long  and  curious  names — 
And  wondered  who  invented  them,  and  if 
Their  owners  knew  how  very  strange  they  were. 
A  corps  of  weary  firemen  met  me  once, 
Late  home  from  service,  with  their  gaudy  car, 
And  loud  with  careless  curses.     Then  I  stopped, 
And  chatted  with  a  frowsy-headed  girl 
Who  knelt  among  her  draggled  skirts,  and  scrubbed 
The  heel-worn  door-steps  of  a  faded  house. 
Then,  as  I  left  her,  and  resumed  my  walk, 
I  turned  my  eyes  across  the  street,  and  saw 
A  sight  which  stopped  my  feet,  my  breath,  my  heart. 
It  was  my  husband.     Oh,  how  sadly  changed  ! 


76  BITTER-SWEET. 

His  bloodshot  eyes  stared  from  an  anxious  face ; 
His  hat  was  battered,  and  his  clothes  were  torn 
And  splashed  with  mud.     His  poisoned  frame 
Had  shrunk  away,  until  his  garments  hung 
In  folds  about  him.     Then  I  knew  it  all  : 
His  life  had  been  a  measureless  debauch 
Since  his  most  shameless  flight ;    and  in  his  eye, 
Eager  and  strained,  and  peering  down  the  stairs 
That  tumbled  to  the  ante-rooms  of  hell, 
I  saw  the  thirst  which  only  death  can  quench. 
He  did  not  raise  his  eyes  ;    I  did  not  speak  ; 
There  was  no  work  for  me  to1  do  on  him  ; 
And  when,  at  last,  he  tottered  down  the  steps 
Of  a  dark  gin-shop,  I  was  satisfied, 
And  half  relentingly  retraced  my  way. 

I  cannot  tell  the  story  of  the  months 

That  followed  this.     I  toiled  and  toiled  for  bread, 

And  for  the  shelter  of  one  stingy  room. 

Temptation,  which  the  hand  of  poverty 

Bears  oft  seductively  to  woman's  lips, 

To  me  came  not.     I  hated  men  like  beasts  ; 

Their  flattering  words,  and  wicked,  wanton  leers, 

Sickened  me  with  ineffable  disgust. 

At  length  there  came  a  change.     One  warm  Spring  even, 

As  I  sat  idly  dreaming  of  the  past, 

And  questioning  the  future,  my  quick  ear 

Caught  sound  of  feet  upon  the  creaking  stairs, 

And  a  light  rap  delivered  at  my  door. 

I  said,  "  Come  in!"  with  half  defiant  voice, 

Although  I  longed  to  see  a  human  face, 

And  needed  labor  for  my  idle  hands. 

But  when  the  door  was  opened,  and  there  stood 

A  man  before  me,  with  an  eye  as  pure 


BITTER-SWEET.  77 

And  brow  as  fair  as  any  little  child's, 

Matched  with  a  form  and  carriage  which  combined 

All  manly  beauty,  dignity,  and  grace, 

A  quick  blush  overwhelmed  my  pallid  cheeks, 

And,  ere  I  knew,  and  by  no  act  of  will, 

I  rose  and  gave  him  gentle  courtesy. 

He  took  a  seat,  and  spoke  with  pleasant  voice 
Of  many  pleasant  things — the  pleasant  sky, 
The  stars,  the  opening  foliage  in  the  park  ; 
And  then  he  came  to  business.      He  would  have 
A  piece  of  exquisite  embroidery  ; 
My  hand  was  cunning,  if  report  were  true  ; 
Would  it  oblige  him  ? 

It  would  do,  I  said, 

That  which  it  could  to  satisfy  his  wish  ; 
And  when  he  took  the  delicate  pattern  out, 
And  spread  the  dainty  fabric  on  his  knees, 
I  knew  he  had  a  wife. 

He  went  away 

With  kind  "  Good  night,"  and  said  that,  with  my  leave. 
He'd  call  and  watch  the  progress  of  the  work. 
I  marked  his  careful  steps  adovvn  the  stairs, 
And  then,  his  brisk,  firm  tread  upon  the  stones 
Till  in  the  dull  roar  of  the  distant  streets 
It  mingled  and  was  lost.      Then  I  was  lost, — 
Lost  in  a  wild,  wide-ranging  reverie — 
From  which  I  roused  not  till  the  midnight  hush 
Was  broken  by  the  toll  from  twenty  towers. 

This  is  a  man,  I  said  ;  a  man  in  truth  ; 
My  room  has  known  the  presence  of  a  man, 
And  it  has  gathered  dignity  from  him. 


78  BITTER-SWEET. 

I  felt  my  being  flooded  with  new  life. 
My  heart  was  warm  ;  my  pcor,  sore-footed  thoughts 
Sprang  up  full  fledged  through  ether;  and  I  felt 
Like  the  sick  woman  who  had  touched  the  hem 
Of  Jesus'  garment,  when  through  all  her  veins 
Leaped  the  swift  tides  of  youth. 

He  had  a  wife  ! 

Why,  to  a  wrecked,  forsaken  thing  like  me 
Did  that  thought  bring  a  pang  ?     I  did  not  know  ; 
But,  truth  to  tell,  it  gave  me  stinging  pain. 
If  he  was  noble,  he  was  naught  to  me  ; 
If  he  was  great,  it  only  made  me  less  ; 
If  he  loved  truly,  I  was  not  enriched. 
So,  in  my  selfishness,  I  almost  cursed 
The  unknown  woman,  thought  for  whom  had  brought 
Her  loving  husband  to  me.     What  was  I 
To  him  ?     Naught  but  a  poor  unfortunate, 
Picking  her  bread  up  at  a  needle's  point. 
He'll  come  and  criticise  my  handiwork, 
I  said,  and  when  it  is  at  last  complete, 
He'll  draw  his  purse  and  give  me  so  much  gold ; 
And  then,  forgetting  me  for  ever,  go 
And  gather  fragrant  kisses  for  the  boon, 
From  lips  that  do  not  know  their  privilege. 
I  could  be  nothing  but  the  medium 

Through  which  his  love  should  pass  to  reach  its  shrine  ; 
The  glass  through  which  the  sun's  electric  beams 
Kindles  the  rose's  heart,  and  still  remains 
Chill  and  serene  itself — without  reward  ! 
Then  came  to  me  the  thought  of  my  great  wrong. 
A  man  had  spoiled  my  heart,  degraded  me  ; 
A  wanton  woman  had  defrauded  me  ; 
I  would  get  reparation  how  I  could  ! 
He  must  be  something  to  me — I  to  him! 


BITTER-SWEET.  79 

All  men,  however  good,  are  weak,  I  thought ; 

And  if  I  can  arrest  no  beam  of  love 

By  right  of  nature  or  by  leave  of  law, 

I'll  stain  the  glass  !     And  the  last  words  I  said, 

As  I  lay  down  upon  my  bed  to  dream, 

Were  those  four  words  of  sin:  "I'll  stain  the  glass!" 

GRACE. 

Mary,  I  cannot  hear  you  more  ;  your  tale, 
So  bitter  and  so  passing  pitiful 
I  have  forgotten  tears,  and  feel  my  eyes 
Burn  dry  and  hot  with  looking  at  your  face, 
Now  gathers  blackness,  and  grows  horrible. 

MARY. 

Nay,  you  must  hear  me  out  ;  I  cannot  pause  ; 
And  have  no  worse  to  say  than  I  have  said — 
Thank  God,  and  him  who  put  away  my  toils  ! 

He  came,  and  came  again  ;  and  every  charm 
God  had  bestowed  on  me,  or  art  could  frame, 
I  used  with  keenest  ingenuities 
To  fascinate  the  sensuous  element 
O'er  which,  mistrusted,  and  but  half  asleep, 
His  conscience  and  propriety  stood  guard. 
I  told  with  tears  the  story  of  my  woe  ; 
He  listened  to  me  with  a  thoughtful  face, 
And  sadly  sighed  ;  and  thus  I  won  his  ruth. 
And  then  I  told  him  how  my  life  was  lost ; — 
How  earth  had  nothing  more  for  me  but  pain  ; 
Not  e'en  a  friend.    At  this,  he  took  my  hand, 
And  said,  out  of  his  nobleness  of  heart, 
That  I  should  have  an  honest  friend  in  him  ; 
On  which  I  bowed  my  head  upon  his  arm, 
And  wept  again,  as  if  my  heart  would  break 


8O  BITTER-SWEET. 

With  the  full  pressure  of  its  gratitude. 

He  put  me  gently  off,  and  read  my  face  : 

I  stood  before  him  hopeless,  helpless,  his! 

His  swift  soul  gathered  what  I  meant  it  should. 

He  sighed  and  trembled  ;  then  he  crossed  the  floor, 

And  gazed  with  eye  abstracted  on  the  sky  ; 

Then  came  and  looked  at  me  ;  then  turned, 

As  if  affrighted  at  his  springing  thoughts, 

And,  with  abruptest  movement,  left  the  room. 

This  time  he  took  with  him  the  broidered  thing 

That  I  had  wrought  for  him  ;  and  when  I  oped 

The  little  purse  that  he  rewarded  me, 

I  found  full  golden  payment  five  times  told. 

Given  from  pity?  thought  I, — that  alone? 

Is  manly  pity  so  munificent  ? 

Pity  has  mixtures  that  it  knows  not  of! 

It  was  a  cruel  triumph,  and  I  speak 

Of  it  with  utter  penitence  and  shame. 

I  knew  that  he  would  come  again  ;  I  knew 

His  feet  would  bring  him,  though  his  soul  rebelled. 

I  knew  that  cheated  heart  of  his  would  toy 

With  the  seductive  chains  that  gave  it  thrall, 

And  strive  to  reconcile  its  perjury 

With  its  own  conscience  of  the  better  way, 

By  fabrication  of  apologies 

It  knew  were  false. 

And  he  did  come  again  ; 
Confessing  a  strange  interest  in  me, 
And  doing  for  me  many  kindly  deeds. 
I  knew  the  nature  of  the  sympathy 
That  drew  him  to  my  side,  better  than  he  ; 
Though  I  could  see  that  solemn  change  in  him 


BITTER-SWEET.  8 1 

Which  every  face  will  wear,  when  Heaven  and  Hell 

Are  struggling  in  the  heart  for  mastery. 

He  was  unhappy  ;  every  sudden  sound 

Startled  his  apprehensions  ;  from  his  heart 

Rose  heavy  suspirations,  charged  with  prayer, 

Desire,  and  deprecation,  and  remorse  ; — 

Sighs  like  volcanic  breathings — sighs  that  scorched 

His  parching  lips  and  spread  his  face  with  ashes, — 

Sighs  born  in  such  convulsions  of  the  soul 

That  his  strong  frame  quaked  like  Vesuvius, 

Burdened  with  restless  lava. 

Day  by  day 

I  marked  this  dalliance  with  sinful  thought, 
Without  a  throb  of  pity  in  my  heart. 
I  took  his  gifts,  which  brought  immunity 
From  toil  and  care,  as  if  they  were  my  right. 
Day  after  day  I  saw  my  power  increase, 
Until  that  noble  spirit  was  a  slave — 
A  craven,  helpless,  self-suspected  slave. 

But  this  was  not  to  last — thank  God  and  him  ! 
One  night  he  came,  and  there  had  been  a  change. 
My  hand  was  kindly  taken,  but  not  held 
In  the  way  wonted.     He  was  self-possessed  ; 
The  powers  of  darkness  and  his  Christian  heart 
Had  had  a  struggle — his  the  victory  ; 
And  on  his  manly  brow  the  benison 
Of  a  majestic  peace  had  been  imposed. 
Was  I  to  lose  the  guerdon  of  my  guile? 
He  was  my  all,  and  by  the  only  means 
Left  to  a  helpless,  reckless  thing,  like  me  : 
My  heart  made  pledge  the  strife  should  be  renewed. 
I  took  no  notice  of  his  altered  mood, 
But  strove,  by  all  the  tiicks  of  tenderness, 
4* 


82  BITTER-SWEET. 

To  fan  to  life  again  the  drooping  flame 
Within  his  heart ; — with  what  success,  at  last, 
The  sequel  shall  reveal. 

Strange  fire  came  down 
Responsive  to  my  call,  and  the  quick  flash 
That  shrivelled  resolution,  vanquished  will, 
And  with  a  blood-red  flame  consumed  the  crown 
Of  peace  upon  his  brow,  taught  him  how  weak — • 
How  miserably  imbecile — he  had  become, 
Tampering  with  temptation.     Such  a  groan, 
Wrung  from  such  agony,  as  then  he  breathed, 
Pray  Heaven  my  ears  may  never  hear  again ! 
He  smote  his  forehead  with  his  rigid  palm, 
And  sank,  as  if  the  blow  had  stunned  him,  to  his  knees, 
And  there,  with  face 'pressed  hard  upon  his  hands, 
Gave  utterance  to  frenzied  sobs  and  prayers — 
The  wild  articulations  of  despair. 
I  was  confounded.     He — a  man — thought  I, 
Blind  with  remorse  by  simple  look  at  sin  ! 
And  I — a  woman — in  the  devil's  hands, 
Luring  him  Hellward  with  no  blush  of  shame  ! 
The  thought  came  swift  from  God,  and  pierced  my  heart, 
Like  a  barbed  arrow  ;  and  it  quivered  there 
Through  whiles  of  tumult — quivered — and  was  fast  ! 

Thus,  while  I  stood  and  marked  his  kneeling  form, 

Still  shocked  by  deep  convulsions,  such  a  light 

Illumed  my  soul,  and  flooded  all  the  room, 

That,  without  thought,  I  said,  "The  Lord  is  here!" 

Then  straight  my  spirit  heard  these  wondrous  words  : 

"  Tempted  in  all  points  like  ourselves,  was  He — 

Tempted,  but  sinless."     Oh,  what  majesty 

Of  meaning  did  those  precious  words  convey  ! 

'Twas  through  temptation,  thought  I,  that  the  Lord — 


I5ITTER-SWEET.  83 

The  mediator  between  God  and  men — 

Reached  down  the  hand  of  sympathetic  love 

To  meet  the  grasp  of  lost  Humanity  ; 

And  this  man,  kneeling,  has  the  Lord  in  him, 

And  comes  to  mediate  'twixt  Christ  and  me, 

"Tempted  but  sinless;" — one  hand  grasping  mine, 

The  other  Christ's. 

Why  had  he  suffered  thus  ? 

Why  had  his  heart  been  led  far  down  to  mine, 
To  beat  in  sinful  sympathy  with  mine, 
But  that  my  heart  should  cling  to  his  and  him, 
And  follow  his  withdrawal  to  the  heights 
From  whence  he  had  descended  ?     Then  I  learned 
Why  Christ  was  tempted  ;  and,  as  broad  and  full, 
The  heart  of  the  great  secret  was  revealed, 
And  I  perceived  God's  dealings  with  my  soul, 
I  knelt  beside  the  tortured  man  and  wept, 
And  cried  to  Heaven  for  mercy.     As  I  prayed, 
My  soul  cast  off  its  shameful  enterprise  ; 
And  when  it  fell,  I  saw  my  godless  self — 
My  own  degraded,  tainted,  guilty  heart, 
Which  it  had  hidden  from  me.     Oh,  the  pang — 
The  poignant  throe  of  uttermost  despair — 
That  followed  the  discovery !     I  felt 
That  I  was  lost  beyond  the  grace  of  God  ; 
And  my  heart  turned  with  instinct  sure  and  swift 
To  the  strong  struggler,  praying  at  my  side, 
And  begged  his  succor  and  his  prayers.     I  felt 
That  he  must  lead  me  up  to  where  the  hand 
Of  Jesus  could  lay  hold  on  me,  or  I  was  doomed. 

Temptation's  spell  was  past.     He  took  my  hand, 
And,  as  he  prayed  that  we  might  be  forgiven, 
And  pledged  our  future  loyalty  to  God 


84  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  his  white  throne  within  our  hearts,  I  gave 
Responses  to  each  promise  ;  then  I  crowned 
His  closing  utterance  with  such  Amen 
As  weak  hearts,  conscious  of  their  weakness,  give 
When,  bowed  to  dust,  and  clinging  to  the  robes 
Of  outraged  mercy,  they  devote  themselves 
Once  and  forever  to  the  pitying  Christ. 

Then  we  arose  and  stood  upon  our  feet. 

He  gave  me  no  reproaches,  but  with  voice 

Attempered  to  his  altered  mood,  confessed 

His  own  blameworthiness,  and  pressed  the  prayer 

That  I  would  pardon  him,  as  he  believed 

That  God  had  pardoned  ;    but  my  heart  was  full,- 

So  full  of  its  sore  sense  of  wrong  to  him, 

Of  the  deep  guilt  of  shameful  purposes 

And  treachery  to  worthy  womanhood, 

That  I  could  not  repeat  his  Christian  words, 

Asking  forbearance  on  my  own  behalf. 

He  sat  before  me  for  a  golden  hour  ; 

And  gave  me  counsel  and  encouragement, 

Till,  like  broad  gates,  the  possibilities 

Of  a  serener  and  a  higher  life 

Were  thrown  wide  open  to  my  eager  feet, 

And  I  resolved  that  I  would  enter  in, 

And,  with  God's  gracious  help,  go  no  more  out. 

For  weeks  he  watched  me  with  stern  carefulness, 
Nourished  my  resolution,  prayed  with  me, 
And  led  me,  step  by  step,  to  higher  ground, 
Till,  gathering  impulse  in  the  upward  walk, 
And  strength  in  purer  pair,  and  keener  sight 
In  the  sweet  light  that  dawned  upon  my  soul, 
I  grasped  the  arm  of  Jesus,  and  was  safe. 


BITTER-SWEET. 

And  now,  when  I  look  back  upon  my  life, 

It  seems  as  if  that  noble  man  were  sent 

To  give  me  rescue  from  the  pit  of  death. 

But  from  his  distant  height  he  could  not  reach 

And  act  upon  my  soul  ;    so  Heaven  allowed 

Temptation's  ladder  'twixt  his  soul  and  mine 

That  they  might  meet  and  yield  his  mission  thrift. 

I  doubt  not  in  my  grateful  soul  to-night 

That  had  he  stayed  within  his  higher  world, 

And  tried  to  call  me  to  him,  I  had  spurned 

Alike  his  mission  and  his  ministry. 

That  he  was  tempted,  was  at  once  my  sin 

And  my  salvation.     That  he  sinned  in  thought, 

And  fiercely  wrestled  with  temptation,  won 

For  his  own  spirit  that  humility 

Which  God  had  sought  to  clothe  him  with  in  vain, 

By  other  measures,  and  that  strength  which  springs 

From  a  great  conflict  and  a  victory. 

We  talked  of  this  ;    and  on  our  bended  knees 

We  blessed  the  Great  Dispenser  for  the  means 

By  which  we  both  had  learned  our  sinful  selves, 

And  found  the  way  to  a  diviner  life. 

So,  with  my  chastened  heart  and  life,  I  come 

Back  to  my  home,  to  live — perhaps  to  die. 

God's  love  has  been  in  all  this  discipline  ; 

God's  love  has  used  those  awful  sins  of  mine 

To  make  me  good  and  happy.     I  can  mourn 

Over  my  husband  ;  I  can  pray  for  him, 

Nay,  I  forgive  him  ;    for  I  know  the  power 

With  which  temptation  comes  to  stronger  men. 

I  know  the  power  with  which  it  came  to  me. 


And  now,  dear  Grace,  my  story  is  complete. 
You  have  received  it  with  dumb  wonderment, 


86  BITTER-SWEET. 

And  it  has  been  too  long.     Tell  me  what  thought 
Stirs  in  your  face,  and  waits  for  utterance. 

GRACE. 

That  I  have  suffered  little — trusted  less.; 

That  I  have  failed  in  charity,  and  been 

Unjust  to  all  men — specially  to  one. 

I  did  not  think  there  lived  a  man  on  earth 

Who  had  such  virtue  as  this  friend  of  yours, — • 

Weak,  and  yet  strong.     'Twere  but  humanity 

To  give  him  pity  in  his  awful  strife  ; 

To  stint  the  meed  of  reverence  and  praise 

For  his  triumphant  conquest  of  himself, 

Were  infamy.     I  love  and  honor  him  ; 

And  if  I  knew  my  husband  were  as  strong, 

I  could  fall  down  before,  and  worship  him  ; 

I  could  fall  down,  and  wet  his  feet  with  tears — 

Tears  penitential  for  the  grievous  wrong 

That  I  have  done  him.     But  alas  !    alas ! 

The  thought  comes  back  again.     O  God  in  Heaven, 

Help  me  with  patience  to  await  the  hour 

When  the  great  purpose  of  thy  discipline 

Shall  be  revealed,  and,  like  this  chastened  one, 

I  can  behold  it,  and  be  satisfied ! 

MARY. 

Hark!     They  are  calling  us  below,  I  think. 
We  must  go  down.     We'll  talk  of  this  again 
When  we  have  leisure.     Kiss  the  little  one, 
And  thank  his  weary  brain  it  sleeps  so  well. 

[  They  descend. 


SECOND   EPISODE. 

LOCALITY—  The  Kitchen. 
PRESENT— JOSEPH,  SAMUEL,  REBEKAH,  and  other  CHILDREN 

THE    QUESTION    ILLUSTRATED    BY    STORY. 

JOSEPH. 

HAVE  we  not  had  "Button-Button"  enough, 
And  "  Forfeits,"  and  all  such  silly  stuff? 

SAMUEL. 

Well,  we  were  playing  "  Blind-Man's-Buff" 
Until  you  fell,  and  rose  in  a  huff, 
And  declared  the  game  was  too  rude  and  rough. 
Poor  boy  !     What  a  pity  he  isn't  tough ! 

ALL. 

Ha  !    ha  !    ha  !    what  a  pretty  boy  ! 
Papa's  delight,  and  mamma's  joy  ! 
Wouldn't  he  like  to  go  to  bed, 
And  have  a  cabbage -leaf  on  his  head  ? 

JOSEPH. 

Laugh,  if  you  like  to  !     Laugh  till  you're  gray  ; 
But  I  guess  you'd  laugh  another  way 


88  BITTER-SWEET. 

If  you'd  hit  your  toe,  and  fallen  like  me, 

And  cut  a  bloody  gash  in  your  knee, 

And  bumped  your  nose  and  bruised  your  shin, 

Tumbling  over  the  rolling-pin 

That  rolled  to  the  floor  in  the  awful  din 

That  followed  the  fall  of  the  row  of  tin 

That  stood  upon  the  dresser. 

SAMUEL. 

Guess  again — dear  little  guesser  ! 
You  wouldn't  catch  this  boy  lopping  his  wing, 
Or  whining  over  anything. 
So  stir  your  stumps, 
Forget  your  bumps, 
Get  out  of  your  dumps, 
And  up  and  at  it  again  ; 
For  the  clock  is  striking  ten, 
And  Ruth  will  come  pretty  soon  and  say  : 
"  Go  to  your  beds, 

You  sleepy  heads  !  " 
So — quick  !     What  shall  we  play  ? 

REBEKAH. 

I  wouldn't  play  any  more, 
For  Joseph  is  tired  and  sore 
With  his  fall  upon  the  floor. 


ALL. 
Then  he  shall  tell  a  story. 

JOSEPH. 
About  old  Mother  Morey  ? 


BITTER-SWEET.  89 

ALL. 
No  !     Tell  us  another. 

JOSEPH. 
About  my  brother  ? 

REBEKAH. 

Now,  Joseph,  you  shall  be  good, 

And  do  as  you'd  be  done  by  ; 

We  didn't  mean  to  be  rude 

When  you  fell  and  began  to  cry  ; 

\Ve  wanted  to  make  you  forget  your  pain  ; 

But  it  frets  you,  and  we'll  not  laugh  again. 

JOSEPH. 

Well,  if  you'll  all  sit  still, 

And  not  be  frisking  about, 

Nor  utter  a  whisper  till 

You've  heard  my  story  out, 

I'll  tell  you  a  tale  as  weird 

As  ever  you  heard  in  your  lives, 

Of  a  man  with  a  long  blue  beard, 

And  the  way  he  treated  his  wives. 

ALL. 

Oh,  that  will  be  nice  ! 
We'll  be  still  as  mice. 

JOSEPH. 

[Relates  the  old  story  of  Blue  Beard,   and  DAVID   and  RUTH 
enter  from  the  cellar  unperceived. 

Centuries  since  there  flourished  a  man, 
(A  cruel  old  Tartar  as  rich  as  the   Khan,) 


9O  BITTER-SWEET. 

Whose  castle  was  built  on  a  splendid  plan, 

With  gardens  and  groves  and  plantations  ; 
But  his  shaggy  beard  was  as  blue  as  the  sky, 
And  he  lived  alone,  for  his  neighbors  were  shy, 
And  had  heard  hard  stories,  by  the  by, 
About  his  domestic  relations. 


Just  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  plain 

A  widow  abode,  with  her  daughters  twain, 

And  one  of  them — neither  cross  nor  vain — 

Was  a  beautiful  little  treasure ; 
So  he  sent  them  an  invitation  to  tea, 
And  having  a  natural  wish  to  see 
His  wonderful  castle  and  gardens,  all  three 

Said  they'd  do  themselves  the  pleasure. 

As  soon  as  there  happened  a  pleasant  day, 
They  dressed  themselves  in  a  sumptuous  way, 
And  rode  to  the  castle  as  proud  and  gay 

As  silks  and  jewels  could  make  them  ; 
And  they  were  received  in  the  finest  style, 
And  saw  everything  that  was  worth  their  while, 
In  the  halls  of  Blue  Beard's  grand  old  pile, 

Where  he  was  so  kind  as  to  take  them. 


The  ladies  were  all  enchanted  quite  ; 
For  they  found  old  Blue  Beard  so  polite 
That  they  did  not  suffer  at  all  from  fright, 

And  frequently  called  thereafter ; 
Then  he  offered  to  marry  the  younger  one, 
And  as  she  was  willing  the  thing  was  done, 
And  celebrated  by  all  the  ton 

With  feasting  and  with  laughter. 


BITTER-SWEET.  91 

As  kind  a  husband  as  ever  was  seen 

Was  Blue  Beard  then,  for  a  month,  I  ween ; 

And  she  was  as  proud  as  any  queen 

And  as  happy  as  she  could  be,  too  ; 
But  her  husband  called  her  to  him  one  day, 
And  said,  "  My  dear,  I  am  going  away  ; 
It  will  not  be  long  that  I  shall  stay ; 

There  is  business  for  me  to  see  to. 

"  The  keys  of  my  castle  I  leave  with  you; 

But  if  you  value  my  love,  be  true, 

And  forbear  to  enter  the  Chamber  of  Blue ! 

Farewell,  Fatima !     Remember  !  " 
Fatima  promised  him  ;  then  she  ran 
To  visit  the  rooms  with  her  sister  Ann  ; 
But  when  she  had  finished  the  tour,  she  began 

To  think  about  the  Blue  Chamber. 

Well,  the  woman  was  curiously  inclined, 
So  she  left  her  sister  and  prudence  behind, 
(With  a  little  excuse)  and  started  to  find 

The  mystery  forbidden. 

She  paused  at  the  door ; — all  was  still  as  night ! 
She  opened  it,  then  through  the  dim,  blue  light 
There  blistered  her  vision  the  horrible  sight 

That  was  in  that  chamber  hidden. 

The  room  was  gloomy  and  damp  and  wide, 
And  the  floor  was  red  with  the  bloody  tide 
From  headless  women,  laid  side  by  side, 

The  wives  of  her  lord  and  master  ! 
Frightened  and  fainting,  she  dropped  the  key, 
But  seized  it  and  lifted  it  quickly  ;  then  she 
Hurried  as  swiftly  as  she  could  flee 

From  the  scene  of  the  disaster. 


Q2  BITTER-SWEET. 

She  tried  to  forget  the  terrible  dead, 

But  shrieked  when  she  saw  that  the  key  was  red, 

And  sickened  and  shook  with  an  awful  dread 

When  she  heard  Blue  Beard  was  coming. 
He  did  not  appear  to  notice  her  pain  ; 
But  he  took  his  keys,  and  seeing  the  stain, 
He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  refrain 

That  he  had  been  quietly  humming. 

"Mighty  well,  madam!"  said  he,  "mighty  well! 

What  does  this  little  blood-stain  tell  ? 

You've  broken  your  promise  ;  prepare  to  dwell 

With  the  wives  I've  had  before  you  ! 
You've  broken  your  promise,  and  you  shall  die." 
Then  Fatima,  supposing  her  death  was  nigh, 
Fell  on  her  knees  and  began  to  cry, 

"  Have  mercy,  I  implore  you  !  " 

"  No!"  shouted  Blue  Beard,  drawing  his  sword  ; 
"  You  shall  die  this  very  minute,"  he  roared. 
"  Grant  me  time  to  prepare  to  meet  my  Lord," 

The  terrified  woman  entreated. 
"  Only  ten  minutes,"  he  roared  again  ; 
And  holding  his  watch  by  its  great  gold  chain, 
He  marked  on  the  dial  the  fatal  ten, 

And  retired  till  they  were  completed. 

"  Sister,  oh,  sister,  fly  up  to  the  tower ! 
Look  for  release  from  this  murderer's  power  ! 
Our  brothers  should  be  here  this  very  hour  ; — 

Speak  !     Does  there  come  assistance  !  " 
"  No  :  I  see  nothing  but  sheep  on  the  hill." 
"Look  again,  sister!"  "  I'm  looking  still, 
But  naught  can  I  see,  whether  good  or  ill, 

Save  a  flurry  of  dust  in  the  distance." 


BITTER-SWEET.  93 

"  Time's  up!"  shouted  Blue  Beard,  out  from  his  room  ; 
"  This  moment  shall  witness  your  terrible  doom, 
And  give  you  a  dwelling  within  the  room 

Whose  secrets  you  have  invaded." 
"Comes  there  no  help  for  my  terrible  need?" 
"  There  are  horsemen  twain  riding  hither  with  speed." 
"  Oh  J  tell  them  to  ride  very  fast  indeed, 

Or  I  must  meet  death  unaided." 

"  Time's  fully  up !     Now  have  done  with  your  prayer," 
Shouted  Blue  Beard,  swinging  his  sword  on  the  stair  ; 
Then  he  entered,  and  grasping  her  beautiful  hair, 

Swung  his  glittering  weapon  around  him  ; 
But  a  loud  knock  rang  at  the  castle  gate, 
And  Fatima  was  saved  from  her  horrible  fate, 
For  shocked  with  surprise,  he  paused  too  late ; 

And  then  the  two  soldiers  found  him. 

They  were  her  brothers,  and  quick  as  they  knew 
What  the  fiend  was  doing,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  attacked  him  fiercely,  and  ran  him  through, 

So  that  soon  he  was  mortally  wounded. 
With  a  wild  remorse  was  his  conscience  filled 
When  he  thought  of  the  hapless  wives  he  had  killed  ; 
But  quickly  the  last  of  his  blood  was  spilled, 

And  his  dying  groan  was  sounded. 

* 

As  soon  as  Fatima  recovered  from  fright, 
She  embraced  her  brothers  with  great  delight ; 
And  they  were  as  glad  and  as  grateful  quite 

As  she  was  glad  and  grateful. 
Then  they  all  went  out  from  that  scene  of  pain, 
And  sought  in  quietude  to  regain 
Their  minds,  which  had  come  to  be  quite  insane, 

In  a  place  so  horrid  and  hateful. 


94  BITTER-SWEET. 

'Twas  a  private  funeral  Blue  Beard  had ; 

For  the  people  knew  he  was  very  bad, 

And,  though  they  said  nothing,  they  all  were  glad 

For  the  fall  of  the  evil-doer  ; 

But  Fatima  first  ordered  some  graves  to  be  made, 
And  there  the  unfortunate  ladies  were  laid, 
And  after  some  painful  months,  with  the  aid 

Of  her  friends,  her  spirits  came  to  her. 


Then  she  cheered  the  hearts  of  the  suffering  poor, 
And  an  acre  of  land  around  each  door, 
And  a  cow  and  a  couple  of  sheep,  or  more, 

To  her  tenantry  she  granted. 
So  all  of  them  had  enough  to  eat, 
And  their  love  for  her  was  so  complete 
They  would  kiss  the  dust  from  her  little  feet, 

Or  do  anything  she  wanted. 


SAMUEL. 

Capital !     Capital !     Wasn't  it  good  ! 

I  should  like  to  have  been  one  brother ; 

If  I  had  been,  you  may  reckon  there  would 

Have  been  little  work  for  the  other. 

I'd  have  run  him  right  through  the  heart,  just  so, 

And  cut  off  his  head  at  a  single  blow, 

And  killed  him  so  quickly  he'd  never  know 

What  it  was  that  struck  him,  wouldn't  I,  Joe  ? 


JOSEPH. 

You  are  very  brave  with  your  bragging  tongue ; 
But  if  you  had  been  there,  you'd  have  sung 
A  very  different  tune. 


BITTER-SWEET.  95 

Poor  Blue  Beard  !     He  would  have  been  afraid 
Of  a  little  boy  with  a  penknife  blade, 
Or  a  tiny  pewter  spoon  ! 


SAMUEL. 

It  makes  no  difference  what  you  say 
(Pretty  little  boy,  afraid  to  play !) 
But  it  served  him  rightly  any  way, 

And  gave  him  just  his  due. 
And  wasn't  it  good  that  his  little  wife 
Should  live  in  his  castle  the  rest  of  her  life, 

And  have  all  his  money  too  ? 


REBEKAH. 

I'm  thinking  of  the  ladies  who 
Were  lying  in  the  Chamber  Blue, 
With  all  their  small  necks  cut  in  two. 

I  see  them  lying,  half  a  score, 

In  a  long  row  upon  the  floor, 

Their  cold,  white  bosoms  marked  with  gore. 

I  know  the  sweet  Fatima  would 
Have  put  their  heads  on  if  she  could  ; 
And  made  them  live — she  was  so  good  ; 

And  washed  their  faces  at  the  sink  ; 
But  Blue  Beard  was  not  sane,  I  think  : 
I  wonder  if  he  did  not  drink ! 

For  no  man  in  his  proper  mind 
Would  be  so  cruelly  inclined 
As  to  kill  ladies  who  were  kind. 


96  BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 

\Steppingforiuardwlth  DAVID. 

Story  and  comment  alike  are  bad  ; 
These  little  fellows  are  raving  mad 

With  thinking  what  they  should  do, 
Supposing  their  sunny-eyed  sister  had 
Given  her  heart — and  her  head — to  a  lad 

Like  the  man  with  the  Beard  of  Blue. 
Each  little  jacket 
Is  now  a  packet 

Of  murderous  thoughts  and  fancies  ; 
Oh,  the  gentle  trade 
By  which  fiends  are  made 
With  the  ready  aid 

Of  these  bloody  old  romances  ! 
And  the  little  girl  takes  the  woman's  turn, 
And  thinks  that  the  old  curmudgeon 
Who  owned  a  castle,  and  rolled  in  gold 
Over  fields  and  gardens  manifold, 
And  kept  in  his  house  a  family  tomb, 
With  his  bowling  course  and  his  billiard-room, 
Where  he  could  preserve  his  precious  dead, 
Who  took  the  kiss  of  the  bridal  bed 
From  one  who  straightway  took  their  head, 
And  threw  it  away  with  the  pair  of  gloves 
In  which  he  wedded  his  hapless  loves, 

Had  some  excuse  for  his  dudgeon. 


DAVID. 

We  learn  by  contrast  to  admire 
The  beauty  that  enchains  us  ; 
And  know  the  object  of  desire 
By  that  which  pains  us. 


BITTER-SWEET.  97 

The  roses  blushing  at  the  door, 

The  lapse  of  leafy  June, 
The  singing  birds,  the  sunny  shore, 
The  summer  moon  ; — 

All  these  entrance  the  eye  or  ear 

By  innate  grace  and  charm  ; 
But  o'er  them,  reaching  through  the  year, 
Hangs  Winter's  arm, 

To  give  to  memory  the  sign, 

The  index  of  our  bliss, 
And  show  by  contrast  how  divine 
The  Summer  is. 

From  chilling  blasts  and  stormy  skies, 

Bare  hills  and  icy  streams, 
Touched  into  fairest  life  arise 
Our  summer  dreams. 

And  virtue  never  seems  so  fair 

As  when  we  lift  our  gaze 
From  the  red  eyes  and  bloody  hair 
That  vice  displays. 

We  are  too  low, — our  eyes  too  dark 

Love's  height  to  estimate, 
Save  as  we  note  the  sunken  mark 
Of  brutal  Hate. 

So  this  ensanguined  tale  shall  move 

Aright  each  little  dreamer, 
And  Blue  Beard  teach  them  how  to  love 
The  sweet  Fatima. 

-       5 


98  BITTER-SWEET. 

They  hate  his  crimes,  and  it  is  well  ; 

They  pity  those  who  died  ; 
Their  sense  of  justice  when  he  fell 
Was  satisfied. 

No  fierce  revenges  are  the  fruit 

Of  their  just  indignation  ; 
They  sit  in  judgment  on  the  brute, 
And  condemnation  ; 

And  turn  to  her,  his  rescued  wife, 

Her  deeds  so  kind  and  human, 
And  love  the  beauty  of  her  life, 
And  bless  the  woman. 

RUTH. 

That  is  the  way  I  supposed  you  would  twist  it ; 
And  now  that  the  boys  are  disposed  of, 
And  the  moral  so  handsomely  closed  off, 
What  do  you  say  of  the  girl  ?     That  she  missed  it, 
When    she    thought    of    old    Blue    Beard    as    some    do    of 

Judas, 

Who  with  this  notion  essay  to  delude  us  : 
That  when  he  relented, 
And  fiercely  repented, 
He  was  hardly  so  bad 
As  he  commonly  had 
The  fortune  to  be  represented  ? 

DAVID. 

The  noblest  pity  in  the  earth 

Is  that  bestowed  on  sin. 
The  Great  Salvation  had  its  birth 
That  ruth  within. 


BITTER-SWEET.  99 


The  girl  is  nearest  God,  in  fact ; 

The  boy  gives  crime  its  due  ; 
She  blames  the  author  of  the  act, 
And  pities  too. 

Thus,  from  this  strange  excess  of  wrong, 

Her  tender  heart  has  caught 
The  noblest  truth,  the  sweetest  song, 
The  Saviour  taught. 

So,  more  than  measured  homily, 

Of  sage,  or  priest,  or  preacher, 
Is  this  wild  tale  of  cruelty 

Love's  gentle  teacher. 

It  tells  of  sin,  its  deep  remorse, 

Its  fitting  recompense, 
And  vindicates  the  tardy  course 
Of  Providence. 

These  boyish  bosoms  are  on  fire 

With  chivalric  possession, 
And  burn  with  just  and  manly  ire 
Against  oppression. 

The  glory  and  the  grace  of  life, 

And  Love's  surpassing  sweetness, 
Rise  from  the  monster  to  the  wife 

In  high  completeness  ; 

And  thence  look  down  with  mercy's  eye 

On  sin's  accurst  abuses, 
And  seek  to  wrest  from  charity 
Some  fair  excuses. 


100  BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 

These  greedy  mouths  are  watering 
For  the  fruit  within  the  basket ; 
And,  although  they  will  not  ask  it, 
Their  jack-knives  all  are  burning 
And  their  eager  hands  are  yearning 

For  the  peeling  and  the  quartering. 
So  let  us  have  done  with  our  talk  ; 
For  they  are  too  tired  to  say  their  prayers, 
And  the  time  is  come  they  should  walk 
From  the  story  below  to  the  story  up  stairs. 


HOMELESS. 


THE   THIRD    MOVEMENT. 

LOCALITY—  The  Kitchen. 

PRESENT — DAVID,  RUTH,  JOHN,  PETER,  PRUDENCE,  and 
PATIENCE. 

THE   QUESTION    ILLUSTRATED   BY   THE 
DENOUEMENT. 

JOHN. 

SINCE  the  old  gentleman  retired  to  bed, 

Things  have  gone  strangely.     David,  here,  and  Ruth, 

Have  wasted  thirty  minutes  underground 

In  explorations.     One  would  think  the  house 

Covered  the  entrance  of  the  Mammoth  Cave, 

And  they  had  lost  themselves.     Mary  and  Grace 

Still  hold  their  chamber  and  their  conference. 

And  pour  into  each  other's  greedy  ears 

Their  stream  of  talk,  whose  low,  monotonous  hum, 

Would  lull  to  slumber  any  storm  but  this. 

The  children  are  play-tired  and  gone  to  bed  ; 

And  one  may  know  by  looking  round  the  room 

Their  place  of  sport  was  here.     And  we,  plain  folk, 

Who  have  no  gift  of  speech,  especially 

On  themes  which  we  and  none  may  understand, 

Have  yawned  and  nodded  in  the  great  square  room, 

And  wondered  if  the  parted  family 

Would  ever  meet  atrain. 


102  BITTER-SWEET. 

RUTH. 

John,  do  you  see 

The  apples  and  the  cider  on  the  hearth  ? 
If  I  remember  rightly,  you  discuss 
Such  themes  as  these  with  noticeable  zest 
And  pleasant  tokens  of  intelligence  ; 
Rather  preferring  scanty  company 
To  the  full  circle.     So,  sir,  take  the  lead, 
And  help  yourself. 

JOHN. 

Aye  !     That  I  will,  and  give 
Your  welcome  invitation  currency, 
In  the  old-fashioned  way.     Come  !     Help  yourselves ! 

DAVID. 

[Looking  out  from  the  window. 

The  ground  is  thick  with  sleet,  and  still  it  falls  ! 

The  atmosphere  is  plunging  like  the  sea 

Against  the  woods,  and  pouring  on  the  night 

The  roar  of  breakers,  while  the  blinding  spray 

O'erleaps  the  barrier,  and  comes  drifting  on 

In  lines  as  level  as  the  window-bars. 

What  curious  visions,  in  a  night  like  this, 

Will  the  eye  conjure  from  the  rocks  and  trees, 

And  zigzag  fences !     I  was  almost  sure 

I  saw  a  man  staggering  along  the  road 

A  moment  since  ;    but  instantly  the  shape 

Dropped  from  my  sight.     Hark  !     Was  not  that  a  call — 

A  human  voice  ?     There's  a  conspiracy 

Between  my  eyes  and  ears  to  play  me  tricks, 

Else  wanders  there  abroad  some  hapless  soul 

Who  needs  assistance.     There  he  stands  again, 

And  with  unsteady  essay  strives  to  breast 

The  tempest.     Hush !     Did  you  not  hear  that  cry  ? 


HITTER-SWEET.  103 

Quick,  brothers  !     We  must  out,  and  give  our  aid. 
None  but  a  dying  and  despairing  man 
Ever  gave  utterance  to  a  cry  like  that. 
Nay,  wait  for  nothing.     Follow  me  ! 

RUTH. 

Alas  ! 

Who  can  he  be,  who  on  a  night  like  this, 
And  on  this  night,  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Holds  to  the  highway,  homeless  ? 

PRUDENCE. 

Probably 

Some  neighbor  started  from  his  home  in  quest 
Of  a  physician  ;  or,  more  likely  still, 
Some  poor  inebriate,  sadly  overcome 
By  his  sad  keeping  of  the  holiday. 
I  hope  they'll  give  him  quarters  in  the  barn  ; 
If  he  sleep  here,  there'll  be  no  sleep  for  me. 

PATIENCE. 

I'll  not  believe  it  was  a  man  at  all ; 
David  and  Ruth  are  always  seeing  things 
That  no  one  else  sees. 

RUTH. 

I  see  plainly  now 

What  we  shall  all  see  plainly,  soon  enough. 
The  man  is  dead,  and  they  are  bearing  him 
As  if  he  were  a  log.     Quick!     Stir  the  fire, 
And  clear  the  settle  !     We  must  lay  him  there. 
I  will  bring  cordials,  and  flannel  stuffs 
With  which  to  chafe  him  ;  open  wide  the  door. 

[  The  men  enter,  bearing  a  body  apparently  lifeless,  which 
they  lay  upon  the  settle. 


IO4  BITTER-SWEET. 

DAVID. 

Now  do  my  bidding,  orderly  and  swift ; 

And  we  may  save  from  death  a  fellow  man. 

Peter,  relieve  him  of  those  frozen  shoes, 

And  wrap  his  feet  in  flannel.     This  way,  Ruth ! 

Administer  that  cordial  yourself. 

John,  you  are  strong,  and  that  rough  hand  of  yours 

Will  chafe  him  well.     Work  with  a  will,  I  say  ! 

My  hand  is  on  his  heart,  and  I  can  feel 
Both  warmth  and  motion.     If  we  persevere, 
He  will  be  saved.     Work  with  a  will,  I  say ! 

A  groan  ?     Ha !     That  is  good.     Another  groan  ? 
Better  and  better ! 

RUTH. 

It  is  down  at  last ! — 
A  spoonful  of  the  cordial.     His  breath 
Comes  feebly,  but  is  warm  upon  my  hand. 

DAVID. 

Give  him  brisk  treatment,  and  persistent,  too  ; 
And  we  shall  be  rewarded  presently, 
For  there  is  life  in  him. 

He  moves  his  lips 
And  tries  to  speak. 

And  now  he  opes  his  eyes. 
What  eyes  !     How  wandering  and  wild  they  are ! 

[To  the  stranger. 

We  are  your  friends.     We  found  you  overcome 
By  the  cold  storm  without,  and  brought  you  in. 


BITTER-SWEET.  1 

We  are  your  friends,  I  say  ;  so  be  at  ease, 
And  let  us  do  according  to  your  need. 
What  is  your  wish  ? 

STRANGER. 

My  friends  ?     O  God  in  Heaven ! 
They've  cheated  me  !     I'm  in  the  hospital. 
Oh,  it  was  cruel  to  deceive  me  thus ! 
No,  you  are  not  my  friends.     What  bitter  pain 
Racks  my  poor  body ! 

DAVID. 

Poor  man,  how  he  raves ! 
Let  us  be  silent  while  the  warmth  and  wine 
Provoke  his  sluggish  blood  to  steady  flow, 
And  each  dead  sense  comes  back  to  life  again, 
O'er  the  same  path  of  torture  which  it  trod 
When  it  went  out  from  him.     He'll  slumber  soon  ; 
And,  when  he  wakens,  we  may  talk  with  him. 

PRUDENCE. 

[Sot to  voce. 

Shall  I  not  call  the  family  ?     I  think 
Mary  and  Grace  must  both  be  very  cold  ; 
And  they  know  nothing  of  this  strange  affair. 
I'll  wait  them  at  the  landing,  and  secure 
Their  silent  entrance. 

DAVID. 

If  it  please  you — well ! 

[PRUDENCE  retires,  and  returns  with  GRACB  and  MARY. 
MARY. 

Why !     We  heard  nothing  of  it — Grace  and  I  : — 
What  a  cadaverous  hand !     How  blue  and  thin  ! 


106  BITTER-SWEET. 

DAVID. 

At  his  first  wild  awaking  he  bemoaned 

His  fancied  durance  in  a  hospital ; 

And  since  he  spoke  so  strangely,  I  have  thought 

He  may  have  fled  a  mad-house.     Matters  not ! 

We've  done  our  duty,  and  preserved  his  life. 

MARY. 

Shall  I  disturb  him  if  I  look  at  him  ? 
I'm  strangely  curious  to  see  his  face. 

DAVID. 

Go.     Move  you  carefully,  and  bring  us  word 
Whether  he  sleeps. 

[MARY  rises,  goes  to  the  settle,  and  sinks  back  fainting. 

Why!     What  ails  the  girl? 

I  thought  her  nerves  were  iron.     Dash  her  brow 
And  bathe  her  temples  ! 


'Tis  over  now. 


MARY. 

There — there, — that  will  do. 

DAVID. 

The  man  is  speaking.     Hush! 

STRANGER. 

Oh,  what  a  heavenly  dream !    But  it  is  past, 

Like  all  my  heavenly  dreams,  for  never  more 

Shall  dream  entrance  me.     Death  has  never  dreams, 

But  everlasting  wakefulness.     The  eye 

Of  the  quick  spirit  that  has  dropped  the  flesh 

May  close  no  more  in  slumber. 


15ITTER-SWKET. 

I  must  die  ! 

This  painless  spell  which  binds  my  weary  limbs 
This  peace  ineffable  of  soul  and  sense — 
Is  dissolution's  herald,  and  gives  note 
That  life  is  conquered  and  the  struggle  o'er. 
But  I  had  hoped  to  see  her  ere  I  died  ; 
To  kneel  for  pardon,  and  implore  one  kiss, 
Pledge  to  my  soul  that  in  the  coming  heaven 
We  should  not  meet  as  strangers,  but  rejoin 
Our  hearts  and  lives  so  madly  sundered  here, 
Through  fault  and  freak  of  mine.     But  it  is  well. 
God's  will  be  done  ! 


I  dreamed  that  I  had  reached 
The  old  red  farm-house, — that  I  saw  the  light 
Flaming  as  brightly  as  in  other  times 
It  flushed  the  kitchen  windows  ;  and  that  forms 
Were  sliding  to  and  fro  in  joyous  life, 
Restless  to  give  me  welcome.     Then  I  dreamed 
Of  the  dear  woman  who  went  out  with  me 
One  sweet  spring  morning,  in  her  own  sweet  spring, 

To wretchedness  and  ruin.     Oh,  forgive — 

Dear,  pitying  Christ,  forgive  this  cruel  wrong, 
And  let  me  die !     Oh,  let  me — let  me  die  ! 
Mary !  my  Mary  !     Could  you  only  know 
How  I  have  suffered  since  I  fled  from  you, — 
How  I  have  sorrowed  through  long  months  of  pain, 
And  prayed  for  pardon, — you  would  pardon  me. 

DAVID. 

\Sotto  voce. 

Mary,  what  means  this  ?     Does  he  dream  alone, 
Or  are  we  dreaming? 


IOS  BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

Edward,  I  am  here. 

I  am  your  Mary !     Know  you  not  my  face  ? 
My  husband,  speak  to  me  !     Oh,  speak  once  more  ! 
This  is  no  dream,  but  kind  reality. 

EDWARD. 
[Raising  himself,  and  looking-  wildly  around. 

You,  Mary?     Is  this  heaven,  and  am  I  dead? 
I  did  not  know  you  died  :  when  did  you  die  ? 
And  John  and  Peter,  Grace  and  little  Ruth 
Grown  to  a  woman  ;  are  they  all  with  you  ? 
'Tis  very  strange !      O  pity  me,  my  friends  ! 
For  God  has  pitied  me,  and  pardoned,  too  ; 
Else  1  should  not  be  here.      Nay,  you  seem  cold, 
And  look  on  me  with  sad  severity. 
Have  you  no  pardoning  word — no  smile  for  me  ? 

MARY. 

This  is  not  Heaven's  but  Earth's  reality  ; 

This  is  the  farm-house — these  your  wife  and  friends. 

I  hold  your  hand,  and  I  forgive  you  all. 

Pray  you  recline !     You  are  not  strong  enough 

To  bear  this  yet. 

EDWARD. 

[Sinking  back. 

O  toiling  heart !  O  sick  and  sinking  heart ! 

Give  me  one  hour  of  service,  ere  I  die  ! 

This  is  no  dream.     This  hand  is  precious  flesh, 

And  I  am  here  where  I  have  prayed  to  be. 

My  God,  I  thank  thee !  Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer, 

And,  in  its  answer,  given  me  a  pledge 

Of  the  acceptance  of  my  penitence. 

How  have  I  yearned  for  this  one  priceless  hour ! 


BITTER-SWEET.  109 

Cling  to  me,  dearest,  while  my  feet  go  down 
Into  the  silent  stream  ;  nor  loose  your  hold, 
Till  angels  grasp  me  on  the  other  side. 

MARY. 

Edward,  you  are  not  dying — must  not  die  ; 
For  only  now  are  we  prepared  to  live. 
You  must  have  quiet,  and  a  night  of  rest. 
Be  silent,  if  you  love  me  ! 

EDWARD. 

If  I  love  ? 

Ah,  Mary !  never  till  this  blessed  hour, 
When  power  and  passion,  lust  and  pride  are  gone, 
Have  I  perceived  what  wedded  love  may  be  ; — 
Unutterable  fondness,  soul  for  soul  ; 
Profoundest  tenderness  between  two  hearts 
Allied  by  nature,  interlocked  by  life. 
I  know  that  I  shall  die  ;  but  the  low  clouds 
That  closed  my  mental  vision  have  retired, 
And  left  a  sky  as  clear  and  calm  as  Heaven. 
I  must  talk  now,  or  never  more  on  earth  ; 
So  do  not  hinder  'me. 

MARY. 

[  Weeping. 

Have  you  a  wish 

That  I  can  gratify  ?     Have  you  any  words 
To  send  to  other  friends  ? 


EDWARD. 

I  have  no  friends 


1  nave  no  mem 
But  you  and  these,  and  only  wish  to  leave 
My  worthless  name  and  memory  redeemed 
Within  your  hearts  to  pitying  respect. 


I IO  BITTER-SWEET. 

I  have  no  strength,  and  it  becomes  me  not, 

To  tell  the  story  of  my  life  and  sin. 

I  was  a  drunkard,  thief,  adulterer  ; 

And  fled  from  shame,  with  shame,  to  find  remorse. 

I  had  but  few  months  of  debauchery, 

Pursued  with  mad  intent  to  damp  or  drown 

The  flames  of  a  consuming  conscience,  when 

My  body,  poisoned,  crippled  with  disease, 

Refused  the  guilty  service  of  my  soul, 

And  at  mid-day  fell  prone  upon  the  street. 

Thence  I  was  carried  to  a  hospital, 

And  there  I  woke  to  that  delirium 

Which  none  but  drunkards  this  side  of  the  pit 

May  even  dream  of. 

But  at  last  there  came, 
With  abstinence  and  kindly  medicines, 
Release  from  pain,  and  peaceful  sanity  ; 
And  then  Christ  found  me,  ready  for  His  hand. 
I  was  not  ready  for  Him  when  He  came 
And  asked  me  for  my  youth  ;    and  when  He  knocked 
At  my  heart's  door  in  manhood's  early  prime 
With  tenderest  monitions,  I  debarred 
His  waiting  feet  with  promise  and  excuse  ; 
And  when,  in  after  years,  absorbed  in  sin, 
The  gentle  summons  swelled  to  thunderings 
That  echoed  through  the  chambers  of  my  soul 
With  threats  of  vengeance,  I  shut  up  my  ears  ; 
And  then  He  went  away,  and  let  me  rush 
Without  arrest,  or  protest,  toward  the  pit. 
I  made  swift  passage  downward,  till,  at  length, 
I  had  become  a  miserable  wreck — 
Pleasure  behind  me  ;    only  pain  before  ; 
My  life  lived  out  ;    the  fires  of  passion  dead  ; 
Without  a  friend  ;    no  pride,  no  power,  no  hope  ; 


BITTER-SWEET.  1 1 1 

No  motive  in  me  e'en  to  wish  for  life. 

Then,  as  I  said,  Christ  came,  with  stern  and  sad 

Reminders  of  His  mercy  and  my  guilt, 

And  the  door  fell  before  Him. 

I  went  out, 

And  trod  the  wildernesses  of  remorse 
For  many  days.     Then  from  their  outer  verge, 
Tortured  and  blinded,  I  plunged  madly  down 
Into  the  sullen  bosom  of  despair  ; 

But  strength  from  Heaven  was  given  me,  and  preserved 
Breath  in  my  bosom,  till  a  -light  streamed  up 
Upon  the  other  shore,  and  I  struck  out 
On  the  cold  waters,  struggling  for  my  life. 
Fainting  I  reached  the  beach,  and  on  my  knees 
Climbed  up  the  thorny  hill  of  penitence, 
Till  I  could  see,  upon  its  distant  brow, 
The  Saviour  beck'ning.     Then  I  ran — I  flew — 
And  grasped  his  outstretched  hand.     It  lifted  me 
High  on  the  everlasting  rock,  and  then 
It  folded  me,  with  all  my  griefs  and  tears, 
My  sin-sick  body  and  my  guilt-stained  soul, 
To  the  great  heart  that  throbs  for  all  the  world. 

MARY. 

Dear  Lord,  I  bless  thee  !     Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer 
And  saved  the  wanderer !     Hear  it  once  again, 
And  lengthen  out  the  life  thou  hast  redeemed ! 

EDWARD. 

Mary,  my  wife,  forbear  !     I  may  not  give 
Response  to  such  petition.     I  have  prayed 
That  I  may  die.     When  first  the  love  Divine 
Received  me  on  its  bosom,  and  in  mine 
I  felt  the  springing  of  another  life, 


112  BITTER-SWEET. 

I  begged  the  Lord  to  grant  me  two  requests  : 
The  first  that  I  might  die,,  and  in  that  world 
Where  passion  sleeps,  and  only  influence 
From  Him  and  those  who  cluster  at  His  throne 
Breathes  on  the  soul,  the  germ  of  His  great  life, 
Bursting  within  me,  might  be  perfected. 
The  second,  that  your  life,  my  love,  and  mine 
Might  be  once  more  united  on  the  earth 
In  holy  marriage,  and  that  mine  might  be 
Breathed  out  at  last  within  your  loving  arms. 
One  prayer  is  granted,  and  the  other  waits 
But  a  brief  space  for  its  accomplishment. 

IrtARY. 

But  why  this  prayer  to  die  ?     Still  loving  me, — 
With  the  great  motive  for  desiring  life 
And  the  deep  secret  of  enjoyment  won, — 
Why  pray  for  death  ? 

EDWARD. 

Do  you  not  know  me,  Mary  ? 
I  am  afraid  to  live,  for  I  am  weak. 
I've  found  a  treasure  only  life  can  steal ; 
I've  won  a  jewel  only  death  will  keep. 
In  such  a  heart  as  mine,  the  priceless  pearl 
Would  not  be  safe.     That  which  I  would  not  take 
When  health  was  with  me, — which  I  spurned  away 
So  long  as  I  had  power  to  sin,  I  fear 
Would  be  surrendered  with  that  power's  return 
And  the  temptation  to  its  exercise. 
For  soul  like  mine,  diseased  in  every  part, 
There  is  but  one  condition  in  which  grace 
May  give  it  service.     For  my  malady 
The  Great  Physician  draws  the  blood  away 
That  only  flows  to  feed  its  baleful  fires  ; 


BITTER-SWEET.  1 1  3 

For  only  thus  the  balsam  and  the  balm 
May  touch  the  springs  of  healing. 

So  I  pray 

To  be  delivered  from  myself, — to  be 
Delivered  from  necessity  of  ill, — 
To  be  secured  from  bringing  harm  to  you. 
Oh,  what  a  boon  is  death  to  the  sick  soul ! 
I  greet  it  with  a  joy  that  passes  speech. 
Were  the  whole  world  to  come  before  me  now, — 
Wealth  with  its  treasures  ;     Pleasure  with  its  cup  ; 
Power  robed  in  purple  ;    Beauty  in  its  pride, 
And  with  Love's  sweetest  blossoms  garlanded  ; 
Fame  with  its  bays,  and  Glory  with  its  crown, — 
To  tempt  me  lifeward,  I  would  turn  away, 
And  stretch  my  hands  with  utter  eagerness 
Toward  the  pale  angel  waiting  for  me  now, 
And  give  myself  to  him,  to  be  led  out, 
Serenely  singing,  to  the  land  of  shade. 

MARY. 

Edward,  I  yield  you.     I  would  not  retain 

One  who  has  strayed  so  long  from  God  and  heaven, 

When  his  weak  feet  have  found  the  .only  path 

Open  for  such  as  he. 

• 

EDWARD. 

My  strength  recedes ; 

But  ere  it  fail,  tell  me  how  fares  your  life. 
You  have  seen  sorrow  ;    but  it  comforts  me 
To  hear  the  language  of  a  chastened  soul 
From  one  perverted  by  my  guilty  hand. 
You  speak  the  dialect  of  the  redeemed — 
The  Heaven  accepted.     Tell  me  it  is  so, 
And  you  are  happy. 


114  BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

With  sweet  hope  and  trust 
I  may  reply,  'tis  as  you  think  and  wish. 
I  have  seen  sorrow,  surely,  and  the  more 
That  I  have  seen  what  was  far  worse  ;    but  God 
Sent  his  own  servant  to  me  to  restore 
My  sadly  straying  feet  to  the  sure  path  ; 
And  in  my  soul  I  have  the  pledge  of  grace 
Which  shall  suffice  to  keep  them  there. 

EDWARD. 

Ah,  joy ! 

You  found  a  friend  ;    and  my  o'ernowing  heart, 
Welling  with  gratitude,  pours  out  to  him 
For  his  kind  ministry  its  fitting  meed. 
Oh,  breathe  his  name  to  me,  that  my  poor  lips 
May  bind  it  to  a  benison,  and  that, 
While  dying,  I  may  whisper  it  with  those — 
Jesus  and  Mary — which  I  love  the  best. 
Name  him,  I  pray  you. 

MARY. 

You  would  ask  of  me 

To  bear  your  thanks  to  him,  and  to  rehearse 
Your  dying  words  ? 

GRACE. 

He  asks  your  good  friend's  name. 
You  do  not  understand  him. 

MARY. 

It  is  hard 

To  give  denial  to  a  dying  wish  ; 
But,  Edward,  I've  no  right  to  speak  his  name. 
He  was  a  Christian  man,  and  you  may  give 


BITTER-SWEET.  1 1  5 

Of  the  full  largess  of  your  gratitude 

All,  without  robbing  God,  you  have  to  give, 

And  fail,  e'en  then,  of  worthy  recompense. 

EDWARD. 

Your  will  is  mine. 

GRACE. 

Nay,  Mary,  tell  it  him! 

Where  is  he  going  he  should  bruit  the  name  ? 
Remember  where  he  lies,  and  that  no  ears 
Save  those  of  angels 

MARY. 

There  are  others  here 
Who  may  not  hear  it. 

RUTH. 

We  will  all  retire. 

It  is  not  proper  we  should  linger  here, 
Barring  the  sacred  confidence  of  hearts 
Parting  so  sadly. 

DAVID. 

Mary,  you  must  yield, 
Nor  keep  the  secret  longer  from  your  friends. 

MARY. 

David,  you  know  not  what  you  say. 

DAVID. 

I  know ; 
So  give  the  dying  man  no  more  delay. 


Il6  BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

I  will  declare  it  under  your  command. 

This  stranger  friend — stranger  for  many  months — 

This  man,  selectest  instrument  of  Heaven, 

Who  gave  me  succor  in  my  hour  of  need, 

Snatched  me  from  ruin,  rescued  me  from  want, 

Counselled  and  cheered  me,  prayed  with  me,  and  then 

Led  me  with  careful  hand  into  the  light. 

Was  he  now  bending  over  you  in  tears — 

David,  my  brother ! 

EDWARD. 

Blessed  be  his  name ! 
Brother  by  every  law,  above — below ! 

GRACE. 

{Pale  and  trembling. 

David?     My  husband?     Did  I  hear  aright? 

You  are  not  jesting!     Sure  you  would  not  jest 

At  such  a  juncture  !     Speak,  my  husband,  speak  ! 

Is  this  a  plot  to  cheat  a  dying  man, 

Or  cheat  a  wife  who,  if  it  be  no  plot, 

Is  worthy  death  ?     What  can  you  mean  by  this  ? 

MARY. 

Not  more  nor  less  than  my  true  words  convey. 

GRACE. 
Nay,  David,  tell  me  ! 

DAVID. 
Mary's  words  are  truth. 


BITTER-SWEET.  117 

GRACE. 

O  mean  and  jealous  heart,  what  hast  thou  done  ! 
What  wrong  to  honor,  spite  to  Christian  love, 
And  shame  to  self  beyond  self-pardoning  ! 
How  can  I  ever  lift  my  faithless  eyes 
To  those  true  eyes  that  I  have  counted  false  ; 
Or  meet  those  lips  that  I  have  charged  with  lies  ; 
Or  win  the  dear  embraces  I  have  spurned  ? 

0  most  unhappy,  most  unworthy  wife ! 

No  one  but  he  who  still  has  clung  to  thee, — 
Proud,  and  imperious,  and  impenitent, — 
No  one  but  he  who  has  in  silence  borne 
Thy  peevish  criminations  and  complaints 
Can  now  forgive  thee,  when  in  deepest  shame 
Thou  bowest  with  confession  of  thy  faults. 
Dear  husband  !     David !     Look  upon  your  wife  ! 
Behold  one  kneeling  never  knelt  to  you ! 

1  have  abused  you  and  your  faithful  love, 
And,  in  my  great  humiliation,  pray 

You  will  not  trample  me  beneath  your  feet. 

Pity  my  weakness,  and  remember,  too, 

That  Love  was  jealous  of  thee,  and  not  Hate — 

That  it  was  Love's  own  pride  tormented  me. 

My  husband,  take  me  once  more  to  your  arms, 

And  kiss  me  in  forgiveness  ;    say  that  you 

Will  be  my  counsellor,  my  friend,  my  love  ; 

And  I  will  give  myself  to  you  again, 

To  be  all  yours — my  reason,  confidence, 

My  faith  and  trust  all  yours,  my  heart's  best  love, 

My  service  and  my  prayers,  all  yours — all  yours ! 

DAVID. 

Rise,  dearest,  rise !     It  gives  me  only  pain 
That  such  as  you  should  kneel  to  such  as  I. 
Your  words  inform  me  that  you  know  how  weak 


Il8  BITTER-SWEET. 

I  am  whom  you  have  only  fancied  weak. 

Forgive  you  ?     I  forgive  you  everything  ; 

And  take  the  pardon  which  your  prayer  insures. 

Let  this  embrace,  this  kiss,  be  evidence 

Our  jarring  hearts  catch  common  rhythm  again, 

And  we  are  lovers. 

RUTH. 

Hush  !     You  trouble  him. 
He  understands  this  scene  no  more  than  we. 
Mary,  he  speaks  to  you. 

EDWARD. 

Dear  wife,  farewell! 

The  room  grows  dim,  and  silently  and  soft 
The  veil  is  dropping  'twixt  my  eyes  and  yours, 
Which  soon  will  hide  me  from  you — you  from  me. 
Only  one  hand  is  warm  ;    it  rests  in  yours, 
Whose  full,  sweet  pulses  throb  along  my  arm, 
So  that  I  live  upon  them.     Cling  to  me ! 
And  thus  your  life,  after  my  life  is  past, 
Shall  lay  me  gently  in  the  arms  of  Death. 
Thus  shall  you  link  your  being  with  a  soul 
Gazing  unveiled  upon  the  Great  White  Throne. 

Dear  hearts  of  love  surrounding  me,  farewell ! 

I  cannot  see  you  now ;    or,  if  I  do, 

You  are  transfigured.     There  are  floating  forms 

That  whisper  over  me  like  summer  leaves  ; 

And  now  there  comes,  and  spreads  through  all  my  soul 

Delicious  influx  of  another  life, 

From  out  whose  essence  spring,  like  living  flowers, 

Angelic  senses  with  quick  ultimates, 

That  catch  the  rustle  of  ethereal  robes, 

And  the  thin  chime  of  melting  minstrelsy — 


BITTER-SWEET.  1 19 

Rising  and  falling — answered  far  away — 

As  Echo,  dreaming  in  the  twilight  woods, 

Repeats  the  warble  of  her  twilight  birds. 

And  flowers  that  mock  the  Iris  toss  their  cups 

In  the  impulsive  ether,  and  spill  out 

Sweet  tides  of  perfume,  fragrant  deluges, 

Flooding  my  spirit  like  an  angel's  breath. 

And  still  the  throng  increases  ;    still  unfold 

With  broader  span  and  more  elusive  sweep 

The  radiant  vistas  of  a  world  divine. 

But  O  my  soul!    what  vision  rises  now! 

Far,  far  away,  white  blazing  like  the  sun, 

In  deepest  distance  and  on  highest  height, 

Through  walls  diaphanous,  and  atmosphere 

Flecked  with  unnumbered  forms  of  missive  power, 

Out-going  fleetly  and  returning  slow, 

A  presence  shines  I  may  not  penetrate  ; 

But  on  a  throne,  with  smile  ineffable, 

I  see  a  form  my  conscious  spirit  knows. 

Jesus,  my  Saviour!     Jesus,  Lamb  of  God! 

Jesus  who  taketh  from  me  all  my  sins, 

And  from  the  world  !     Jesus,  I  come  to  thee  ! 

Come  thou  to  me  !     O  come,  Lord,  quickly  !     Come ! 

DAVID. 

Flown  on  the  wings  of  rapture  !     Is  this  death  ? 

His  heart  is  still ;    his  beaded  brow  is  cold  ; 

His  wasted  breast  struggles  for  breath  no  more  ; 

And  his  pale  features,  hardened  with  the  stress 

Of  Life's  resistance,  momently  subside 

Into  a  smile,  calm  as  a  twilight  lake, 

Sprent  with  the  images  of  rising  stars. 

We  have  seen  Evil  in  his  countless  forms 

In  these  poor  lives  ;    have  met  his  armed  hosts 


I2O  BITTER-SWEET. 

In  dread  encounter  and  discomfiture ; 
And  languished  in  captivity  to  them, 
Until  we  lost  our  courage  and  our  faith  ; 
And  here  we  see  their  Chieftain — Terror's  King ! 
He  cuts  the  knot  that  binds  a  weary  soul 
To  faithless  passions,  sateless  appetites, 
And  powers  perverted,  and  it  flies  away 
Singing  toward  Heaven.     He  turns  and  looks  at  us, 
And  finds  us  weeping  with  our  gratitude- 
Full  of  sweet  sorrow, — sorrow  sweeter  far 
Than  the  supremest  ecstasy  of  joy. 

And  this  is  death  !     Think  you  that  raptured  soul 

Now  walking  humbly  in  the  golden  streets, 

Bearing  the  precious  burden  of  a  love 

Too  great  for  utterance,  or  with  hushed  heart 

Drinking  the  music  of  the  ransomed  throng, 

Counts  death  an  evil  ? — evil,  sickness,  pain, 

Calamity,  or  aught  that  God  prescribed 

To  cure  it  of  its  sin,  and  bring  it  where 

The  healing  hand  of  Christ  might  touch  it  ?     No ! 

He  is  a  man  to-night — a  man  in  Christ. 

This  was  his  childhood,  here  ;    and  as  we  give 

A  smile  of  wonder  to  the  little  woes 

That  drew  the  tears  from  out  our  own  young  eyes — 

The  kind  corrections  and  severe  constraints 

Imposed  by  those  who  loved  us — so  he  sees 

A  father's  chastisement  in  all  the  ill 

That  filled  his  life  with  darkness  j    so  he  sees 

In  every  evil  a  kind  instrument 

To  chasten,  elevate,  correct,  subdue, 

And  fit  him  for  that  heavenly  estate — 

Saintship  in  Christ — the  Manhood  Absolute. 


L'ENVOY. 

MIDNIGHT  and  silence!     In  the  West,  unveiled, 
The  broad,  full  moon  is  shining,  with  the  stars. 
On  mount  and  valley,  forest,  roof,  and  rock, 
On  billowy  hills  smooth-stretching  to  the  sky, 
On  rail  and  wall,  on  all  things  far  and  near, 
Cling  the  bright  crystals, — all  the  earth  a  floor 
Of  polished  silver,  pranked  with  bending  forms 
Uplifting  to  the  light  their  precious  weight 
Of  pearls  and  diamonds,  set  in  palest  gold. 
The  storm  is  dead  ;  and  when  it  rolled  away 
It  took  no  star  from  heaven,  but  left  to  earth 
Such  legacy  of  beauty  as  The  Wind — 
The  light -robed  shepherdess  from  Cuban  groves — 
Driving  soft  showers  before  her,  and  warm  airs, 
And  her  wide-scattered  flocks  of  wet-winged  birds, 
Never  bestowed  upon  the  waiting  Spring. 
Pale,  silent,  smiling,  cold,  and  beautiful ! 
Do  storms  die  thus  ?     And  is  it  this  to  die  ? 

Midnight  and  silence  !     In  that  hallowed  room 
God's  full-orbed  peace  is  shining,  with  the  stars. 
On  head  and  hand,  on  brow,  and  lip,  and  eye, 
On  folded  arms,  on  broad  unmoving  breast, 
On  the  white-sanded  floor,  on  everything, 
Rests  the  pale  radiance,  while  bending  forms 
Stand  all  around,  loaded  with  precious  weight 
Of  jewels  such  as  holy  angels  wear. 
6 


122  BITTER-SWEET. 

The  man  is  dead  ;    and  when  he  passed  away 
He  blotted  out  no  good,  but  left  behind 
Such  wealth  of  faith,  such  store  of  love  and  trust, 
As  breath  of  joy,  in-floating  from  the  isles 
Smiled  on  by  ceaseless  summer,  and  indued 
With  foliage  and  flowers  parennial, 
Never  conveyed  to  the  enchanted  soul. 
Do  men  die  thus  ?     And  is  it  this  to  die  ? 

Midnight  and  silence  !     At  each  waiting  bed, 
Husband  and  wife,  embracing,  kneel  in  prayer ; 
And  lips  unused  to  such  a  benison 
Breathe  blessings  upon  evil,  and  give  thanks 
For  knowledge  of  its  sacred  ministry. 
An  infant  nestles  on  a  mother's  breast, 
Whose  head  is  pillowed  where  it  has  not  lain 
For  months  of  wasted  life — the  tale  all  told, 
And  confidence  and  love  for-aye  secure. 

The  widow  and  the  virgin  :   where  are  they  ? 

The  morn  shall  find  them  watching  with  the  dead, 

Like  the  two  angels  at  the  tomb  of  Christ, — 

One  at  the  head,  the  other  at  the  foot, — 

Guarding  a  sepulchre  whose  occupant 

Has  risen,  and  rolled  the  heavy  stone  away ! 


THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST. 


THE   PURITAN'S    GUEST, 
i. 

THE  house  stood  back  from  the  old  Bay  Road 
That  wound  through  Sudbury  town  ; 

Before  it  a  brawling  streamlet  flowed  ; 
Behind  it  the  woods  shut  down. 

Dwelt  there  the  Puritan,  good  John  Guye, 
With  the  daughters  God  had  given, — 

Three  beautiful  maidens  fair  and  shy, 
Whose  mother  was  in  heaven. 

And  one  was  Patience,  so  tall  and  fair; 

And  one  was  queenly  Prue  ; 
And  one  was  Hope  with  the  golden  hair ; 

And  the  eyes  of  all  were  blue. 

And  horsemen,  riding  along  that  way, 

Drank  at  the  household  spring, 
And  asked  of  the  maids  the  time  o'  day, 

Or  brought  them  news  of  the  King. 

It  seemed  like  a  glimpse  of  heaven  to  see, 

In  sun  and  storm  the  same, 
These  three  fair  maidens  at  windows  three 

To  the  riders  who  went  and  came. 


126  THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST. 

It  seemed  like  an  hour  in  heaven  to  sit, 

When  the  winter  wind  blew  hoarse, 
And  watch  these  diligent  maidens  knit, 

And  hear  John  Guye's  discourse. 

If  love  was  lighted,  ah,  who  may  say!  — 

It  was  centuries  ago  ; — 
And  maids  were  the  same  in  the  olden  day 

That  they  are  now,   I  trow. 

And  who  shall  wonder,  or  who  condemn — 

For  their  life  had  scanty  zest — 
If  dangerous  fancies  came  to  them, 

As  the  men  rode  east  and  west? 

Guye  ruled  his  house  by  the  olden  law, 

And  he  knew  the  heart  of  a  maid  ; 
And,  watching  with  godly  care,  he  saw 

What  made  his  soul  afraid  ! 

For  smiles  shone  up  from  the  saucy  lips 

That  drank  at  the  household  spring, 
And  kisses  were  tossed  from  finger-tips 

With  the  tidings  of  the  King. 

And  the  eyes  that  should  have  flamed  with  fire, 

And  spurned  these  gallant  arts, 
Grew  soft  and  sad  with  a  strange  desire, 

Over  tender  and  troubled  hearts. 

"  Ah  God  !  "    groaned  the  Puritan,  good  John  Guye, 

"  That  such  a  woe  can  be  ! — 
That  their  mother  should  be  in  heaven,  and  I 

Should  be  left  with  daughters  three  !  " 


THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST.  127 

(And  one  was  Patience,  so  tall  and  fair  ; 

And  one  was  queenly  Prue  ; 
And  one  was  Hope  with  the  golden  hair  ; 

And  the  eyes  of  all  were  blue.) 


II. 

From  the  bitter  sea  it  had  blown  all  day, 
And  the  night  came  hurrying  down  ; 

And  snow  from  a  sky  all  cold  and  gray 
Was  whitening  Sudbury  town. 

The  chimney  roared  like  an  angry  beast, 

With  eyes  and  tongues  of  fire, 
And  the  crazy  windows  facing  east 

Shook  in  the  tempest's  ire. 

The  sleety  snow  fell  heavy  and  fast ; 

It  beat  on  the  roof  like  rain  ; 
And  the  forest  hurtled  beneath  the  blast 

Of  the  dreadful  hurricane  ! 

The  autumn  leaves  that  had  flown  all  day, 

In  wild  and  scurrying  flocks, 
Were  pelted  down  by  the  hail,  and  lay 

Huddled  among  the  rocks. 

"  'Tis  a  fearful  storm  !  "    said  good  John  Guye, 
As  he  looked  at  his  daughters  three  ; 

"  And  the  riders  abroad  to-night  must  die  ; 
And  many  such  there  be  !  " 

Their  cheeks  grew  pale  in  the  ruddy  blaze 

With  what  their  ears  had  heard, 
And  they  looked  in  the  fire  with  grieved  amaze  ; 

But  they  could  not  speak  a  word. 


128  THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST. 

(And  one  was  Patience,  so  tall  and  fair  ; 

And  one  was  queenly  Prue  ; 
And  one  was  Hope  with  the  golden  hair  ; 

And  the  eyes  of  all  were  blue.) 

'Twas  an  owl  flew  hooting  out  of  the  trees, 

In  a  lull  of  the  tempest's  wrath  ; 
And  caught  mid-air  by  the  crafty  breeze, 

He  wrestled  for  his  path. 

He  wrestled  long,  but  he  sti'ove  in  vain 
With  the  fierce  and  blinding  gloom  ; 

He  was  shot  like  a  bolt  through  the  window-pane, 
And  a  great  gust  filled  the  room. 

They  sprang  to  their  feet  in  sharp  affright, 

But  still  no  word  they  said, 
As  they  stopped  the  window  from  the  night  ; 

And  the  great  white  bird  lay  dead  ! 

"  'Tis  a  fearful  storm  !  "    said  good  John  Guye  ; 

"  Heaven  help  all  those  abroad  ! 
For  the  men  who  ride,  and  the  birds  that  fly, 

Let  us  kneel  and  pray  to  God  !  " 

But  while  they  knelt,  and  the  hoary  saint 

Groaned  with  the  stress  of  prayer, 
They  heard  from  a  wanderer,  far  and  faint, 

A  shriek  of  wild  despair. 

"  Thank  God  !  "    said  the  Puritan,  rising  straight  ; 

"  Thank  God,  my  daughters  three, 
That  the  answer  of  heaven  does  not  wait, 

And  my  guest  has  come  to  me  !  " 


THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST.  129 

He  flung  to  the  wall  the  oaken  door  ; 

He  passed  it  with  a  bound  ; 
And  plunging  into  the  darkness  frore, 

He  listened  along  the  ground. 

Prone  on  the  path  he  found  his  guest  ; 

His  hair  was  streaming  wild  ; 
Guye  lifted  him  to  his  mighty  breast 

As  he  had  been  a  child. 

The  maidens  three  peered  into  the  storm  ; 

It  smote  their  brows  like  death  ; 
They  saw  their  father's  stalwart  form  ; 

They  heard  his  struggling  breath. 

(And  one  was  Patience,  so  tall  and  fair  ; 

And  one  was  queenly  Prue  ; 
And  one  was  Hope  with  the  golden  hair  ; 

And  the  eyes  of  all  were  blue.) 

They  laid  the  stranger  before  the  flame. 

They  nursed  him  till  he  stirred, — 
Till  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  spoke  a  name  ! — 

'Twas  a  woman's  name  they  heard  ! 

They  nursed  him  long  with  tender  care, 

The  while  he  moaned  and  wept  ; 
He  wakened  anon  to  breathe  a  prayer 

And  anon  he  sank  and  slept. 

The  ghostly  shade  of  a  man  he  seemed  ; 

His  teeth  were  white  as  milk ; 
And  the  long  white  curls  on  his  forehead  gleamed 

Like  skeins  of  tangled  silk. 
6* 


130  THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST. 

His  eyes  peered  out  with  an  eerie  stare, — 
They  were  wondrous  deep  and  large, — 

And  they  looked  like  mountains  tarns  aglare 
Beneath  their  beetling  marge  ! 

He  rose  straight  up  from  his  lowly  bed  ; 

He  looked  at  the  maidens  three  ; 
"  I  have  lost  my  wits,  you  see,"  he  said  ; 

"  I  have  lost  my  wits,"  said  he. 

Each  maid  bowed  low  as  he  gazed  at  her, 

In  the  sweet,  old-fashioned  way  ; 
For  they  guessed  that  he  was  a  minister 

From  the  Massachusetts  Bay. 

(And  one  was  Patience,  so  tall  and  fair  ; 

And  one  was  queenly  Prue ; 
And  one  was  Hope  with  the  golden  hair  ; 

And  the  eyes  of  all  were  blue.) 

He  looked  above  and  he  looked  around  ; 

With  fear  their  bosoms  beat ; 
He  looked  till  the  lifeless  bird  he  found, 

And  he  lifted  it  by  its  feet. 

He  lifted  it  in  his  tender  hands  ; 

He  nursed  it  on  his  breast ; 
"  Oh  God  !  "    he  groaned,  "  in  what  strange  lands 

Does  my  own  dear  birdling  rest !  " 

He  sang  to  the  bird  a  thin,  old  tune  ; 

It  quavered  like  a  rill 
That,  leaping  the  leafy  steps  of  June, 

Goes  purling  at  its  will. 


THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST.  131 

He  smoothed  the  feathers  upon  its  neck 

With  his  fingers  pale  and  fine : 
"  She  was  white  as  thee,  thou  snowy  wreck, 

But  her  fate  is  worse  than  thine ! " 

And  then  he  wept  like  a  silly  child, 

And  the  maidens  wept  around  ; 
For  they  doubted  his  wits  had  wandered  wild 

And  his  heart  had  a  cruel  wound. 

"  Pry  thee  tell  thy  tale" — the  voice  was  Guye's — 

"  If  thou  hast  tale  to  tell ;  " 
The  Puritan  brushed  his  blinded  eyes, 

And  the  maidens  hearkened  well. 

They  leaned  to  list  to  the  tale  accursed  ; 

He  leaned  to  their  eyes,  and  said  : 
"  I  think,  'twas  a  little  hair  at  first,— 

A  hair  from  her  lover's  head ! 

"It  came  in  a  gift  of  mignonette, 

And  many  a  dainty  bloom 
Of  briar  and  pink  and  violet, 

Whose  perfume  filled  her  room. 

"  She  nourished  it  under  the  nightly  dew, 

She  fed  it  from  her  soul ; 
And  it  grew  and  grew,  until  she  knew 

That  a  viper  was  in  the  bowl ! 

"  She  nourished  it  through  the  evening  hours  ; 

She  watched  it  day  by  day  ; 
She  nourished  it  till  the  withered  flowers 

Were  culled  and  thrown  away. 


132  THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST. 

"  She  cherished  it  with  a  tender  smile  ; 

She  touched  it  without  fear  ; 
And  I  marveled  much  that  a  thing  so  vile 

Should  be  to  her  so  dear. 

"'Oh  Hester,  Hester!    my  daughter  sweet! 

The  viper  will  work  you  harm  ! ' 
But  she  trod  my  warning  beneath  her  feet, 

And  courted  the  awful  charm. 

"'Oh  father,  father!    I  may  not  scorn 
A  creature  that  love  hath  made  ; 

For  never  was  life  so  sweetly  born, 
And  I  cannot  be  afraid. 

"'Oh,  look  at  its  glittering  eyes!"    she  said; 

They  shine  on  me  like  stars ! 
And  look  at  its  dapples,  so  green  and  red, 

And  the  sidelong,  golden  bars! 

"  '  Was  ever  a  creature  brave  as  this 

By  mortal  maiden  found  ?  ' 
The  serpent  raised  his  head  with  a  hiss, 

And  merrily  swam  around  ! 

"She  laughed  so  loud,  so  long  she  laughed, 
That  I  could  nought  but  groan  ; 

For  I  knew  my  child  was  going  daft 
With  the  charm  about  her  thrown. 

"The  bowl  was  strait  for  the  noisome  thing, 
And  it  lengthened  more  and  more, 

Till  it  leaped,  and  lay  in  a  mottled  ring 
Upon  her  chamber  floor  ! 


•I   MARVELLED  MUCH    THAT   A   THING   SO   VILE 
SHOULD   BE   TO   HER   SO   DEAR." 


THE   PURITANS   GUEST.  133 

"All  wonderful  hues  the  rainbow  knows 

Gleamed  forth  from  its  scaly  skin, 
And  up  from  the  center  its  crest  arose, 

And  the  tongue  shot  out  and  in  ! 

"  The  moon  was  shining  :   I  could  not  sleep  : 

I  clomb  the  silent  stairs  : 
I  sought  her  door  in  the  midnight  deep, 

And  I  caught  her  unawares ! 

"  Fair  as  a  lily  she  lay  at  rest 

In  a  flood  of  the  ghostly  sheen  ; 
Fair  as  twin  lilies  her  virgin  breast, 

And  the  serpent  lay  between  !  " 

Each  maid  rose  shivering  like  a  reed  ; 

They  stopped  their  ears  with  dread  : 
"Oh  sir,  thou  hast  lost  thy  wits,  indeed! — 

Thou  hast  lost  thy  wits  !  "  they  said. 

(And  one  was  Patience,  so  tall  and  fair  ; 

And  one  was  queenly  Prue  ; 
And  one  was  Hope  with  the  golden  hair ; 

And  the  eyes  of  all  were  blue.) 

He  smote  them  down  with  a  look  of  woe  ! 

"  I  shouted  and  shrieked  amain  ! 
It  startled  back  like  a  bended  bow, 

And  slid  from  the  counterpane  ! 

"  '  Oh  Hester,  Hester  !    how  dare  you  lie 

With  the  thing  upon  your  breast !  ' 
And  I  waited  to  hear  what  mad  reply 

Should  break  from  the  serpent's  nest ! 


134  THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST. 

"'Oh  father  dear!  why  come  you  here?' — 

She  did  not  start  or  scream  ; 
'The  moon  shines  bright  this  time  o'  the  year; 

I  was  dreaming  a  pleasant  dream.' 

"I  answered  her  not;  I  turned  around; 

I  staggered  to  my  bed  ; 
And  there  I  sank  in  a  fearful  swound, 

And  lay  as  I  were  dead. 

"But  daily  ever  the  monster  grew, 

And  lengthened  hour  by  hour, 
And  lazily  gloated  as  if  it  knew 

It  held  her  in  its  power  ! 

"  It  quivered  in  every  golden  flake, 

And  grew  in  such  degree, 
That  it  seemed  the  snake  which  the  moonbeams  make, 

Crawling  across  the  sea. 

"  A  silken  fillet,  a  cord,  a  rope, 

A  Monster,  a  Thing  of  Doom, 
It  sucked  the  air  of  its  life  and  hope, 

And  crowded  the  tainted  room. 

"The  midnight  hour  came  round  again; 

The  clock  ticked  like  a  bell  ; 
And  I  heard  through  all  my  burning  brain 

The  sound  of  a  deed  of  hell ! 

"  It  wreathed  its  coils  around  her  frame  ; 

It  lifted  her  in  the  air  ; 
And  I  heard  the  dragon  as  it  came 

Slow  creeping  down  the  stair ! 


THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST.  135 

"  It  touched  the  latch,  the  door  swung  back; 

It  leaped  the  creaking  sill  ; 
My  head  was  split  by  a  thunder-crack, 

And  then  the  world  was  still ! 

"  I  could  not  move,  I  could  not  cry, 

But  I  knew  my  child  was  gone ; 
Like  a  stone  m  the  ground  I  seemed  to  lie, 

While  the  clock  ticked  on  and  on  ! 

Out  into  the  night  they  fled  away — 

Out  from  the  gaping  door — 
And  the  morning  came  with  another  day, 

But  she  came  nevermore ! 

"  But  I  saw  it  once  !     It  reared  its  crest 

Where  the  sunset  clouds  were  piled  ; 
And  I  swear  to  Christ  I  will  travel  west 

Till  I  kiss  once  more  my  child  !  " 


in. 

The  owl  dropped  out  of  his  fainting  hold, 

His  head  fell  back  aghast ; 
"Ah  God!"  shrieked  the  maidens,  "thy  tale  is  told, 

And  we  fear  thy  soul  hath  passed." 

Guye  lifted  him  in  his  arms  amain  ; 

He  bore  him  to  his  bed ; 
And  the  dear  Lord  eased  him  of  his  pain  ; 

In  the  midnight  he  was  dead  ! 

The  storm  grew  weary  along  its  path, 

The  room  was  still  and  warm  ; 
But  a  storm  arose  of  fiercer  wrath 

Within  each  maiden's  form. 


136  THE  PURITAN'S  GUEST. 

It  burst  in  bitterest  tears  and  sighs  ; 

It  shook  them  with  its  grief  ; 
They  could  not  look  in  their  father's  eyes  ; 

They  could  not  find  relief. 

They  left  the  dead  in  the  flickering  gloom 

They  sought  their  chamber  door ; 
And  they  fearfully  scanned  the  wintry  rcfom 

For  the  form  their  fancies  bore. 

They  looked  full  long  but  did  not  find 

That  monstrous  form  of  Sin  ; 
(Yet  a  viper  may  lodge  in  a  maiden's  mind) 

And  then  they  looked  within. 

All  doubtful  shapes  in  hiding  there 

They  killed  in  God's  pure  sight, 
And  they  swept  their  penitent  souls  with  prayer 

That  wild  December  night. 

And  when  they  woke  on  the  morrow  morn, 

They  worshiped — kneeling  low — 
And  their  souls  were  sweet  as  the  day  new-born, 

And  white  as  the  drifted  snow ! 

And  one  was  Patience,  so  tall  and  fair  ; 

And  one  was  queenly  Prue ; 
And  one  was  Hope  with  the  golden  hair  ; 

And  the  eyes  of  all  were  blue. 


KATHRINA. 


A  TRIBUTE. 

MORE  human,  more  divine  than  we — 
In  truth,  half  human,  half  divine — 

Is  woman,  when  good  stars  agree 
To  temper  with  their  beams  benign 

The  hour  of  her  nativity. 

The  fairest  flower  the  green  earth  bears, 
Bright  with  the  dew  and  light  of  heaven, 

Is,  of  the  double  life  she  wears, 
The  type,  in  grace  and  glory  given 

By  soil  and  sun  in  equal  shares. 

True  sister  of  the  Son  of  Man  : 
True  sister  of  the  Son  of  God  : 

What  marvel  that  she  leads  the  van 
Of  those  who  in  the  path  he  trod, 

Still  bear  the  cross  and  wear  the  ban  ? 

If  God  be  in  the  sky  and  sea, 
And  live  in  light  and  ride  the  storm, 

Then  God  is  God,  although  He  be 
Enshrined  within  a  woman's  form  ; 

And  claims  glad  reverence  from  me. 

So,  as  I  worship  Him  in  Christ, 

And  in  the  Forms  of  Earth  and  Air, 

I  worship  Him  imparadised, 
And  throned  within  her  bosom  fair 

Whom  vanity  hath  not  enticed. 


I4O  KATHRINA. 

O  !    woman—  mother  !     Woman — wife  ! — 
The  sweetest  names  that  language  knows ! 

Thy  breast,  with  holy  motives  rife, 
With  holiest  affection  glows, 

Thou  queen,  thou  angel  of  my  life ! 

Noble  and  fine  in  his  degree 

Is  the  best  man  my  heart  receives  ; 

And  this  my  heart's  supremest  plea 

For  him  :    he  feels,  acts,  lives,  believes, 

And  seems,  and  is,  the  likest  thee. 

O  men !     O  brothers  !     Well  I  know 
That  with  her  nature  in  our  souls 

Is  born  the  elemental  woe — 

The  brutal  impulse  that  controls, 

And  drives,  or  drags,  the  godlike  low. 

Ambition,  appetite  and  pride — 

These  throng  and  thrall  the  hearts  of  men 
These  plat  the  thorns,  and  pierce  the  side 

Of  Him  who,  in  our  souls  again, 
Is  spit  upon,  and  crucified. 

The  greed  for  gain,  the  thirst  for  power, 
The  lust  that  blackens  while  it  burns  : 

Ah  !    these  the  whitest  souls  deflour,! 
And  one,  or  all  of  these  by  turns, 

Rob  man  of  his  divinest  dower ! 

Yet  man,  who  shivers  like  a  straw 
x      Before  Temptation's  lightest  breeze, 
Assumes  the  master — gives  the  law 

To  her  who,  on  her  bended  knees, 
Resists  the  black-winged  thunder-flaw  ! 


KATIIRINA.  141 

To  him  who  deems  her  weak  and  vain, 

And  boasts  his  own  exceeding  might, 
She  clings  through  darkest  fortune  fain  ; 

Still  loyal,  though  the  ruffian  smite  ; 
Still  true,  though  crime  his  hands  distain ! 

And  is  this  weakness  ?  Is  it  not 

The  strength  of  God,  that  loves  and  bears 

Though  He  be  slighted  or  forgot 

In  damning  crimes,  or  driving  cares, 

And  closest  clings  in  darkest  lot  ? 

'  Not  many  friends  my  life  has  made ;          ntrtv  •<»***••«'* 

Few  have  I  loved,  and  few  are  they 
Who  in  my  hand  their  hearts  have  laid  ; 

And  these  were  women.  I  am  gray, 
But  never  have  I  been  betrayed,  f 

These  words — this  tribute — for  the  sake 

Of  truth  to  God  and  womankind ! 
These — that  my  heart  may  cease  to  ache 

With  love  and  gratitude  confined, 
And  burning  from  my  lips  to  break ! 

These — to  that  sisterhood  of  grace 

That  numbers  in  its  sacred  list 
My  mother,  risen  to  her  place  ; 

My  wife,  but  yester-morning  kissed, 
And  folded  in  Love's  last  embrace  ! 

This  tribute  of  a  love  profound 

As  ever  moved  the  heart  of  man, 
To  those  to  whom  my  life  is  bound, 

To  her  in  whom  my  life  began, 
And  her  whose  love  my  life  hath  crowned ! 


142  KATHRINA. 

Immortal  Love !     Thou  still  hast  wings 
To  lift  me  to  those  radiant  fields, 

Where  Music  waits  with  trembling  strings, 
And  Verse  her  happy  numbers  yields, 

And  all  the  soul  within  me  sings. 

So  from  the  lovely  Pagan  dream 
I  call  no  more  the  Tuneful  Nine  ; 

For  Woman  is  my  Muse  Supreme  ; 
And  she  with  fire  and  flight  divine, 

Shall  light  and  lead  me  to  my  theme. 


"THOU   LOVELY  VALE    OF   SWEETEST    STREAM   THAT  FLOWS, 
WINDING   AND   WILLOW-FRINGED  CONNECTICUT. 


PART   I. 

CHILDHOOD   AND   YOUTH. 

THOU  lovely  vale  of  sweetest  stream  that  flows : 

Winding  and  willow-fringed  Connecticut ! 

Swift  to  thy  fairest  scenes  my  fancy  flies, 

As  I  recall  the  story  of  a  life 

Which  there  began  in  years  of  sinless  hape, 

And  merged  maturely  into  hopeless  sin. 

0  !  golden  dawning  of  a  day  of  storms, 
That  fell  ere  noontide  into  rayless  night ! 
O !  beautiful  initial,  vermeil-flowered, 
And  bright  with  cherub-eyes  and  effigies, 
To  the  black-letter  volume  of  my  life  ! 
O!  faSry  gateway,  gilt  and  garlanded, 
And  shining  in  the  sun,  to  gloomy  groves 
Of  shadowy  cypress,  and  to  sunless  streams, 
Feeding  with  bane  the  deadly  nightshade's  roots,- 
To  vexing  labyrinths  of  doubt  and  fear, 

And  deep  abysses  of  despair  and  death ! 
Back  to  thy  peaceful  villages  and  fields, 
My  memory,  like  a  weary  pilgrim,  comes 
With,  scrip  and  burdon,  to  repose  awhile, — 
To  pluck  a  daisy  from  a  lonely  grave 
Where  long  ago,  in  common  sepulture, 

1  laid  my  mother  and  my  faith  in  God ; 


144  KATIIRINA. 

To  fix  the  record  of  a  single  day 

So  memorably  wonderful  and  sweet 

Its  power  of  inspiration  lingers  still, — 

So  full  of  her  dear  presence,  so  divine 

With  the  melodious  breathing  of  her  words, 

And  the  warm  radiance  of  her  loving  smile, 

That  tears  fall  readily  as  April  rain 

At  its  recall ;  to  pass  in  swift  review 

The  years  of  adolescence,  and  the  paths 

Of  glare  and  gloom  through  which,  by  passion  led, 

I  reached  the  fair  possession  of  my  power, 

And  won  the  dear  possession  of  my  love, 

And  then — farewell ! 

Queen-village  of  the  meads 
Fronting  the  sunrise  and  in  beauty  throned, 
With  jeweled  homes  around  her  lifted  brow, 
And  coronal  of  ancient  forest  trees — 
Northampton  sits,  and  rules  her  pleasant  realm. 
There  where  the  saintly  Edwards  heralded 
The  terrors  of  the  Lord,  and  men  bowed  low 
Beneath  the  menace  of  his  awful  words  ; 
And  there  where  Nature,  with  a  thousand  tongues 
Tender  and  true,  from  vale  and  mountaintop, 
And  smiling  streams,  and  landscapes  piled  afar, 
Proclaimed  a  gentler  Gospel,  I  was  born. 

In  an  old  holne,  beneath  an  older  elm — 
A  fount  of  weeping  greenery,  that  dripped 
Its  spray  of  rain  and  dew  upon  the  roof — 
I  opened  eyes  on  life  ;  and  now  return, 
Among  the  visions  of  my  early  years, 
Two  so  distinct  that  all  the  rest  grow  dim  : 
My  mother's  pale,  fond  face  and  tearful  eyes, 
Bent  upon  me  in  Love's  absorbing  tran<-<:, 


KATHRINA.  145 

From  the  low  window  where  she  watched  my  play  ; 
And,  after  this,  the  wondrous  elm,  that  seemed 
To  my  young  fancy  like  an  airy  bosk, 
Poised  by  a  single  stem  upon  the  earth, 
And  thronged  by  instant  marvels.     There  in  Spring 
I  heard  with  joy  the  cheery  blue-bird's  note  ; 
There  sang  rejoicing  robins  after  rain  ; 
And  there  within  the  emerald  twilight,  which 
Defied  the  mid-day  sun,  from  bough  to  bough  — 
A  torch  of  downy  flame — the  oriole 
Passed  to  his  nest,  to  feed  the  censer- fires 
Which  Love  had  lit  for  Airs  of  Heaven  to  swing. 
There,  too,  through  all  the  weird  September-eves 
I  heard  the  harsh,  reiterant  katydids 
Rasp  the  mysterious  silence.     There  I  watched 
The  glint  of  stars,  playing  at  hide-and-seek 
Behind  the  swaying  foliage,  till  drawn 
By  tender  hands  to  childhood's  balmy  rest. 
My  Mother  and  the  elm !     Too  soon  I  learned 
That  o'er  me  hung,  and  o'er  the  widowed  one 
Who  gave  me  birth,  with  broader  boughs, 
Haunted  by  sabler  wings  and  sadder  sounds, 
A  darker  shadow  than  the  mighty  elm  ! 
I  caught  the  secret  in  the  street  from  those 
Who  pointed  at  me  as  I  passed,  or  paused 
To  gaze  in  sighing  pity  on  my  play  ; 
From  playmates  who,  forbidden  to  divulge 
The  knowledge  they  possessed,  with  childish  tricks 
Of  indirection  strove  in  vain  to  hide 
Their  awful  meaning  in  unmeaning  phrase  ; 
From  kisses  which  were  pitiful  ;  from  words 
Gentler  than  love's  because  compassionate  ; 
From  deep,  unconscious  sighs  out  of  the  heart 
Of  her  who  loved  me  best,  and  from  her  tears 
That  freest  flowed  when  I  was  happiest. 
7 


146  KATHRINA. 

From  frailest  filaments  of  evidence, 

From  dark  allusions  faintly  overheard, 

From  hint  and  look  and  sudden  change  of  theme 

When  I  approached,  from  widely  scattered  words 

Remembered  well,  and  gathered  all  at  length 

Into  consistent  terms,  I  know  not  how 

I  wrought  the  full  conclusion,  nor  how  young. 

I  only  know  that  when  a  little  child 

I  learned,  though  no  one  told,  that  he  who  gave 

My  life  to  me  in  madness  took  his  own — 

Took  it  from  fear  of  want,  though  he  possessed 

The  finest  fortune  in  the  rich  old  town. 


Thenceforth  I  had  a  secret  which  I  kept — • 

Kept  by  my  mother  with  as  close  a  tongue — 

A  secret  which  embittered  every  cup. 

It  bred  rebellion  in  me — filled  my  soul, 

Opening  to  life  in  innocent  delight, 

With  baleful  doubt  and  harrowing  distrust. 

Why,  if  my  father  was  the  godly  man 

His  gentle  widow  vouched  with  tender  tears, 

Did  He  to  whom  she  bowed  in  daily  prayer — 

Who  loved  us,  as  she  told  me,  with  a  love 

Ineffable  for  strength  and  tenderness — 

Permit  such  fate  to  him,  such  woe  to  us? 

Ah!  many  a  time,  repeating  on  my  knees 

The  simple  language  of  my  evening  prayer 

Which  her  dear  lips  had  taught  me,  came  the  dark 

Perplexing  question,  stirring  in  my  heart 

A  sense  of  guilt,  or  quenching  all  my  faith. 

This,  too,  I  kept  a  secret.     I  had  died 

Rather  than  breathe  the  question  in  her  ears 

Who  knelt  beside  me.     I  had  rather  died 

Than  add  a  sorrow  to  the  load  she  bore. 


I    KISSED  AWAY   HER   TEARS.1 


KATHRINA.  147 

Taught  to  be  true,  I  played  the  hypocrite 

In  truthfulness  to  her.     I  had  no  God, 

Nor  penitence,  nor  loyalty  nor  love  ; 

For  any  being  higher  than  herself. 

Jealous  of  all  to  whom  she  gave  her  hand, 

I  clung  to  her  with  fond  idolatry. 

I  sat  with  her ;  where'er  she  walked,  I  walked  ; 

I  kissed  away  her  tears  ;  I  strove  to  fill, 

With  strange  precocity  of  manly  pride 

And  more  than  boyish  tenderness,  the  void 

Which  death  had  made. 

I  could  not  fail  to  see 

That  ruth  for  me  and  sorrow  for  her  loss — 
Twin  leeches  at  her  heart — were  drinking  blood 
That,  from  her  pallid  features,  day  by  day 
Sank  slowly  down,  to  feed  the  cruel  draught. 
Nay,  more  than  this  I  saw,  and  sadly  worse. 
Oft  when  I  watched  her  and  she  knew  it  not, 
I  marked  a  quivering  horror  sweep  her  face — 
A  strange,  quick  thrill  of  pain — that  brought  her  hand 
With  sudden  pressure  to  her  heart,  and  forced 
To  her  white  lips  a  swiftly  whispered  prayer. 
I   fancied  that  I  read  the  mystery  ; 
But  it  was  deeper  and  more  terrible 
Than  I  conjectured.     Not  till  darker  years 
Came  the  solution. 

Still,  we  had  some  days 
Of  pleasure.     Sorrow  cannot  always  brood 
Over  the  shivering  forms  that  drink  her  warmth, 
But  springs  to  meet  the  morning  light,  and  soars 
Into  the  empyrean,  to  forget 
For  one  sweet  hour  the  ring  of  greedy  mouths 
That  surely  wait,  and  cry  for  her  return. 


I4S  KATIIRINA. 

My  mother's  hand  in  mine,  or  mine  in  hers, 
We  often  left  the  village  far  behind, 
And  walked  the  meadow-paths  to  gather  flowers, 
And  watch  the  plowman  as  he  turned  the  tilth, 
Or  tossed  his  burnished  share  into  the  sun 
At  the  long  furrow's  end,  the  while  we  marked 
The  tipsy  bobolink,  struggling  with  the  chain 
Of  tinkling  music  that  perplexed  his  wings, 
And  listened  to  the  yellow-breasted  lark's 
Sweet  whistle  from  the  grass. 

Glad  in  my  joy, 

My  mother  smiled  amid  these  scenes  and  sounds, 
And  wandered  on  with  gentle  step  and  slow, 
While  I,  in  boyish  frolic,  ran  before, 
Chasing  the  butterflies,  or  in  her  path 
Tossing  the  gaudy  gold  of  buttercups, 
Till  sometimes,  ere  we  knew,  we  stood  entranced 
Upon  the  river's  marge. 

Ever  the  spell 

Of  lapsing  water  tamed  my  playful  mood, 
And  I  reclined  in  silent  happiness 
At  the  tired  feet  that  rested  in  the  shade. 
There  through  the  long,  bright  mornings  we  remained, 
Watching  the  noisy  ferry-boat  that  plied 
Like  a  slow  shuttle  through  the  sunny  warp 
Of  threaded  silver  from  a  thousand  brooks, 
That  took  new  beauty  as  it  wound  away  ; 
Or  gazing  where  at  Holyoke's  verdant  base — 
Like  a  slim  hound,  stretched  at  his  master's  feet — 
Lay  the  long,  lazy  hamlet,  Hockanum  ; 
Or,  upward  turning,  traced  the  line  that  climbed 
O'er  splintered  rock  and  clustered  foliage 
To  the  bare  mountain-top  ;   then  followed  down 


KATIIRINA.  149 

The  scars  of  fire  and  storm,  or  paths  of  gloom 
That  marked  the  curtained  gorges,  till,  at  last, 
Caught  by  a  wisp  of  white,  belated  mist, 
Our  vision  rose  to  trace  its  airy  flight 
Beyond  the  height,  into  the  distant  blue. 

One  morning,  while  we  rested  there,  she  told 
Of  a  dear  friend  upon  the  other  side — 
A  lady  who  had  loved  her — whom  she  loved — 
And  then  she  promised  to  my  eager  wish 
That  soon,  across  the  stream  I  longed  to  pass, 
I  should  go  with  her  to  the  lady's  home. 

The  wishedfor  day  came  slowly— came  at  last— 
My  birthday  morning — rounding  to  their  close 
The  fourteen  summers  of  my  boyhood's  life. 
The  early  mists  were  clinging  to  the  side 
Of  the  dark  mountain  as  we  left  the  town, 
Though  all  the  roadside  fields  were  quick  with  toil. 
In  rhythmic  motion  through  the  dewy  grass 
The  mowers  swept,  and  on  the  fragrant  air 
Was  borne  from  far  the  soft,  metallic  clash 
Of  stones  upon  the  steel. 

This  was  the  day 

"  So  memorably  wonderful  and  sweet 
Its  power  of  inspiration  lingers  still, — 
So  full  of  her  dear  presence,  so  divine 
With  the  melodious  breathing  of  her  words, 
And  the  warm  radiance  of  her  loving  smile, 
That  tears  fall  readily  as  April  rain 
At  its  recall."     And  with  this  day  there  came 
The  revelation  and  the  genesis 
Of  a  new  life.     In  intellect  and  heart 
I  ceased  to  be  a  child,  and  grew  a  man. 


I  SO  KATHRINA. 

By  one  long  leap  I  passed  the  hidden  bound 
That  circumscribed  my  boyhood,  and  thenceforth 
Abjured  all  childish  pleasure,  and  took  on 
The  purpose  and  the  burden  of  my  life. 


We  crossed  the  river — I,  as  in  a  dream ; 

And  when  I  stood  upon  the  eastern  shore, 

In  the  full  presence  of  the  mountain  pile, 

Strange  tides  of  feeling  thrilled  me,  and  I  wept — 

Wept,  though  I  knew  not  why.     I  could  have  knelt 

On  the  white  sand,  and  prayed.     Within  my  soul 

Prophetic  whispers  breathed  of  coming  power 

And  new  possessions.     Aspiration  swelled 

Like  a  pent  stream  within  a  narrow  chasm, 

That  finds  nor  vent  nor  overflow,  but  swirls 

And  surges  and  retreats,  until  it  floods 

The  springs  that  feed  it.     All  was  chaos  wild, — 

A  chaos  of  fresh  passion,  undefined, 

Deep  in  whose  vortices  of  mist  and  fire 

A  new  world  waited  blindly  for  its  birth. 

I  had  no  words  for  revelation  ; — none 

For  answer,  when  my  mother  pressed  my  hand, 

And  questioned  why  it  trembled.     I  looked  up 

With  tearful  eyes,  and  met  her  loving  smile, 

And  both  of  us  were  silent,  and  passed  on. 

We  reached  at  length  the  pleasant  cottage -home 
Where  dwelt  my  mother's  friend,  and,  at  the  gate, 
Found  her  with  warmest  welcome  waiting  us. 
She  kissed  my  mother's  cheek,  and  then  kissed  mine, 
Which  shrank,  and  mantled  with  a  new-born  shame. 
They  crossed  the  threshold  :    I  remained  without, 
Surprised — half-angry — with  the  burning  blush 
That  still  o'erwhclmed  my  face. 


KATHRINA. 

I  looked  around 

For  something  to  divert  my  vexing  thoughts, 
And  saw  intently  gazing  in  my  eyes, 
From  his  long  tether  in  the  grass,  a  lamb — 
A  lusty,  downy,  handsome,  household  pet. 
There  was  a  scarlet  ribbon  on  his  neck 
Which  held  a  silver  bell,  whose  note  I  heard 
First  when  his  eye  met  mine  ;    for  then  he  sprang 
To  greet  me  with  a  joyous  bleat,  and  fell, 
Thrown  by  the  cord  that  held  him.     Pitying  him, 
I  loosed  his  cruel  leashing,  with  intent, 
After  a  half-hour's  frolic,  to  return 
And  fasten  as  I  found  him  ;    but  my  hand, 
Too  careless  of  its  charge,  slipped  from  its  hold 
With  the  first  bound  he  made  ;    and  with  a  leap 
He  cleared  the  garden  wall,  and  flew  away. 

Affrighted  at  my  deed  and  its  mischance, 
I  paused  a  moment — then  with  ready  feet, 
And  first  and  final  impulse,  I  pursued. 

He  held  the  pathway  to  the  mountain  woods, 

The  tinkle  of  his  bell  already  faint 

In  the  long  distance  he  had  placed  between 

Himself  and  his  pursuer.     On  and  on, 

Climbing  the  mountain  path,  he  sped  away, 

I  following  swiftly,  never  losing  sight 

Of  the  bright  scarlet  streaming  from  his  neck, 

Or  hearing  of  the  tinkle  of  his  bell, 

Till,  wearied  both,  and  panting  up  the  steep, 

Our  progress  slackened  to  a  walk. 

At  length 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me,  and  waited  till 
My  foot  had  touched  the  cord  he  dragged,  and  then 


152  KATHRINA. 

Bounded  away,  scaling  the  shelvy  cliffs 

That  bolder  rose  along  the  narrow  path. 

He  had  no  choice  but  mount.     I  pressed  him  close, 

And  rocks  and  chasms  were  thick  on  either  side. 

So,  pausing  oft,  but  ever  leaping  on 

Before  my  hand  could  reach  him,  he  advanced. 

Not  once  in  all  the  passage  had  I  paused 

To  look  below,  nor  had  I  thought  of  her 

Whom  I  had  left.     Absorbed  in  the  pursuit 

I  pressed  it  recklessly,  until  I  grasped 

My  fleecy  prisoner,  wound  and  tied  his  cord 

Around  my  wrist,  and  both  of  us  sank  down 

Upon  the  mountain  summit. 

In  a  swoon 

Of  breathless  weariness  how  long  I  lay 
I  could  not  know  ;    but  consciousness  at  last 
Came  by  my  brute  companion,  who,  alert 
Among  the  scanty  browse,  tugged  at  my  wrist, 
And  brought  me  startled  to  my  feet.     I  saw 
In  one  swift  sweep  of  vision  where  I  stood, — 
In  presence  of  what  beauty  of  the  earth, 
What  glory  of  the  sky,  what  majesty 
Of  lofty  loneliness.     I  drew  the  lamb — 
The  dear,  dumb  creature — gently  to  my  side, 
And  led  him  out  upon  the  beetling  cliff 
That  fronts  the  plaided  meadows,  and  knelt  down. 

WThen  once  the  shrinking,  dizzy  spell  was  gone, 

I  saw  below  me,  like  a  jeweled  cup, 

The  valley  hollowed  to  its  heaven-kissed  lip — 

The  serrate  green  against  the  serrate  blue — 

Brimming  with  beauty's  essence  ;    palpitant 

With  a  divine  elixir — lucent  floods 

Poured  from  the  golden  chalice  of  the  sun, 


KATHRINA.  153 

At  which  my  spirit  drank  with  conscious  growth, 
And  drank  again  with  still  expanding  scope 
Of  comprehension  and  of  faculty. 

I  felt  the  bud  of  being  in  me  burst 

With  full,  unfolding  petals  to  a  rose, 

And  fragrant  breath  that  flooded  all  the  scene. 

By  sudden  insight  of  myself  I  knew 

That  I  was  greater  than  the  scene, — that  deep 

Within  my  nature  was  a  wondrous  world, 

Broader  than  that  I  gazed  on,  and  informed 

With  a  diviner  beauty, — that  the  things 

I  saw  were  but  the  types  of  those  I  held, 

And  that  above  them  both,  High  Priest  and  King, 

I  stood  supreme,  to  choose  and  to  combine, 

And  build  from  that  within  me  and  without 

New  forms  of  life,  with  meaning  of  my  own. 

And  there  alone,  upon  the  mountain-top. 

Kneeling  beside  the  lamb,  I  bowed  my  head 

Beneath  the  chrismal  light,  and  felt  my  soul 

Baptized  and  set  apart  to  poetry.        / 

The  spell  of  inspiration  lingered  not  ; 
But  ere  it  passed,  I  knew  my  destiny — 
The  passion  and  the  portion  of  my  life  : 
Though,  with  the  new-born  consciousness  of  power 
And  organizing  and  creative  skill, 
There  came  a  sense  of  poverty — a  sense 
Of  power  untrained,  of  skill  without  resource, 
Of  ignorance  of  Nature  and  her  laws 
And  language  and  the  learning  of  the  schools. 
I  could  not  rise  upon  my  callow  wings, 
But  felt  that  I  must  wait  until  the  years 
Should  give  them  plumage,  and  the  skill  for  flight 
Be  won  by  trial. 
7* 


154  KATHRINA. 

Then  before  me  rose 

The  long,  long  years  of  study,  interposed 
Between  me  and  the  goal  that  shone  afar  ; 
But  with  them  rose  the  courage  to  surmount, 
And  I  was  girt  for  toil. 

Then,  for  the  first, 

My  eye  and  spirit  that  had  drunk  the  whole 
Wide  vision,  grew  discriminate,  and  traced 
The  crystal  river  pouring  from  the  North 
Its  twinkling  tide,  and  winding  down  the  vale, 
Till,  doubling  in  a  serpent  coil,  it  paused 
Before  the  chasm  that  parts  the  frontal  spurs 
Of  Tom  and  Holyoke  ;    then  in  wreathing  light 
Sped  the  swart  rocks,  and  sought  the  misty  South. 
Across  the  meadows — carpet  for  the  gods, 
Woven  of  ripening  rye  and  greening  maize 
And  rosy  clover-blooms,  and  spotted  o'er 
With  the  black  shadows  of  the  feathery  elms — 
Northampton  rose,  half  hidden  in  her  trees, 
Lifted  above  the  level  of  the  fields, 
And  noiseless  as  a  picture. 

At  my  feet 

The  ferry-boat,  diminished  to  a  toy, 
With  automatic  diligence  conveyed 
Its  puppet  passengers  between  the  shores 
That  hemmed  its  enterprise  ;    and  one  low  barge, 
With  white,  square  sail,  bore  northward  languidly 
The  slow  and  scanty  commerce  of  the  stream. 

Eastward,  upon  another  fertile  stretch 
Of  meadow-sward  and  tilth,  embowered  in  elms, 
Lay  the  twin  streets,  and  sprang  the  single  spire 
Of  Hadley,  where  the  hunted  regicides 


KATIIRINA.  155 

Securely  lived  of  old,  and  strangely  died  ; 
And  eastward  still,   upon  the  last  green  step 
From  which  the  Angel  of  the  Morning  Light 
Leaps  to  the  meadow-lands,  fair  Amherst  sat, 
Capped  by  her  many-windowed  colleges  ; 
While  from  his  outpost  in  the  rising  North, 
Bald  with  the  storms  and  ruddy  with  the  suns 
Of  the  long  eons,  stood  old  Sugarloaf, 
Gazing  with  changeless  brow  upon  a  scene, 
Changing  to  fairer  beauty  evermore. 

Save  of  the  river  and  my  pleasant  home, 

I  knew  not  then  the  names  and  history 

Borne  by  these  visions ;    but  upon  my  brain 

Their  forms  were  graved  in  lines  indelible 

As,  on  the  rocks  beneath  my  feet,  the  prints 

Of  life  in  its  first  motion.     Later  years 

Renewed  the  picture,  and  its  outlines  filled 

With  fair  associations, — wrought  the  past 

And  living  present  into  fadeless  wreaths 

That  crowned  each  mound  and  mount,  and  town  and  tower, 

The  king  of  teeming  memories.     Nor  could 

I  guess  with  faintest  foresight  of  the  life 

Which,  in  the  years  before  me,  I  should  weave 

Of  mingled  threads  of  pleasure  and  of  pain 

Into  these  scenes,  until  not  one  of  all 

Could  meet  my  eye,  or  touch  my  memory, 

Without  recalling  an  experience 

That  drank  the  sweetest  ichor  of  my  veins, 

Or  crowded  them  with  joy. 

At  length  I  turned 

From  the  wide  survey,  and  with  pleased  surprise 
Detected,  nestling  at  the  mountain's  foot, 
The  cottage  I  had  left ;    and,  on  the  lawn, 


156  KATHRINA. 

Two  forms  of  life  that  flitted  to  and  fro. 
I  knew  that  they  had  missed  me  ;    so  I  sought 
The  passage  I  had  climbed,  and,  with  the  lamb 
Still  fastened  to  my  wrist,  I  hasted  down. 

Full  of  the  marvels  of  the  hour  I  sped, 

Leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  or  flying  swift 

The  smoother  slopes,  with  arms  half  wings,  and  feet 

That  only  guarded  the  descent,  the  while 

My  captive  led  me  captive  at  his  will. 

So  tense  the  strain  of  sinew,  so  intense 

The  mood  and  motion,  that  before  I  guessed, 

The  headlong  flight  was  finished,  and  I  walked, 

Jaded  and  reeking,  in  the  level  path 

That  led  the  lambkin  home. 

My  mother  saw, 

And  ran  to  meet  me  :    then  for  long,  still  hours, 
Couched  in  a  dim,  cool  room,   I  lay  and  slept. 
When  I  awoke,  I  found  her  at  my  side, 
Fanning  my  face,  and  ready  with  her  smile 
And  soothing  words  to  greet  me.     Then  I  told, 
With  youthful  volubility  and  wild 
Extravagance  of  figure  and  of  phrase, 
The  morning's  exploit. 

First  she  questioned  me  ; 

But,  as  I  wrought  each  scene  and  circumstance 
Into  consistent  form,  she  drank  my  words 
In  eager  silence  ;    and  within  her  eyes 
I  saw  the  glow  of  pride  which  gravity 
And  show  of  deep  concern  could  not  disguise. 
I  read  her  bosom  better  than  she  knew. 
I  saw  that  she  had  made  discovery 
Of  something  unsuspected  in  her  child, 


KATHRINA.  157 

And  that,  by  one  I  loved,  and  she  the  best, 
The  fire  that  burned  within  me  and  the  power 
That  morning  called  to  life,  were  recognized. 

When  I  had  told  my  story,  and  had  read 

With  kindling  pride  my  praises  in  her  eyes, 

She  placed  her  soft  hand  on  my  brow,  and   said  : 

"  My  Paul  has  climbed  the  noblest  mountain  height 

In  all  his  little  world,  and  gazed  on  scenes 

As  beautiful  as  rest  beneath  the  sun. 

1  trust  he  will  remember  all  his  life 

That  to  his  best  achievement,  and  the  spot 

Nearest  to  heaven  his  youthful  feet  have  trod, 

He  has  been  guided  by  a  guileless  lamb. 

It  is  an  omen  which  his  mother's  heart 

Will  treasure  with  her  jewels." 

When  the  sun 

Of  the  long  summer  day  hung  but  an  hour 
Above  his  setting,  and  the  cool  West  Wind 
Bore  from  the  purpling  hills  his  benison, 
The  farewell  courtesies  of  love  were  given, 
And  we  set  forth  for  home. 

Not  far  we  fared — 

The  river  left  behind — when,  looking  back, 
I  saw  the  mountain  in  the  searching  light 
Of  the  low  sun.     Surcharged  with  youthful  pride 
In  my  adventure,  I  can  ne'er  forget 
The  disappointment  and  chagrin  which  fell 
Upon  me  ;    for  a  change  had  passed.  /  The  steep 
Which  in  the  morning  sprang  to  kiss  the  sun, 
Had  left  the  scene  ;    and  in  its  place  I  saw 
A  shrunken  pile,  whose  paths  my  steps  had  climbed, 
Whose  proudest  height  my  humble  feet  had  trod,  v 


158  KATHRINA. 

'  Its  grand  impossibilities  and  all 

'  Its  store  of  marvels  and  of  mysteries 

Were  flown  away,  and  would  not  be  recalled. 

The  mountain's  might  had  entered  into  me  ; 

And,  from  that  fruitful  hour,  ^whatever  scene 

Nature  revealed  to  me,  she  never  caught 

-**,t£/    f\- 

My  spirit  humbled  by  surprise.)    My  thought 

Built  higher  mountains  than  I  ever  found  ; 
Poured  wilder  cataracts  than  I  ever  saw  ; 
Drove  grander  storms  than  ever  swept  the  sky  ; 
Pushed  into  loftier  heavens  and  lower  hells 
Than  the  abysmal  reach  of  light  and  dark  ; 
And  entertained  me  with  diviner  feasts 
Than  ever  met  the  appetite  of  sense, 
And  poured  me  wine  of  choicer  vintages 
Than  fire  the  hearts  of  kings.     I 

The  frolic-flame 

Which  in  the  morning  kindled  in  my  veins 
Had  died  away ;    and  at  my  mother's  side 
I  walked  in  quiet  mood,  and  gravely  spoke 
Of  the  great  future.     With  a  tender  quest 
My  mother  probed  my  secret  wish,  and  heard, 
With  silence  new  and  strange  respectfulness, 
The  revelation  of  my  plans.     I  felt 
In  her  benign  attention  to  my  words; 
In  her  suggestions*,  clothed  with  gracious  phrase 
To  win  my  judgment ;    and  in  all  those  shades 
Of  mien  and  manner  which  a  mother's  love 
Inspires  so  quickly,  when  the  form  it  nursed 
Becomes  a  staff  in  its  caressing  hand, 
She  had  made  space  for  me,  and  placed  her  life 
In  new  relations  to  my  own.     I  knew 
That  she  who  through  my  span  of  tender  years 
Had  counseled  me,  had  given  me  privilege 


KATHRINA.  1 59 

Within  her  councils ;    and  the  moment  came 
I  learned  that  in  the  converse  of  that  hour, 
The  appetency  of  maternity 
For  manhood  in  its  offspring,  had  laid  hold 
Of  the  fresh  growth  in  me,  and  feasted  well 
Its  gentle  passion. 

Ere  we  reached  our  home, 
The  plans  for  study  were  matured,  and  I, 
Who,  with  an  aptitude  beyond  my  years, 
Had  gathered  learning's  humbler  rudiments 
From  her  to  whom  I  owed  my  earliest  words, 
Was,  when  another  day  should  rise,  to  pass 
To  rougher  teaching,  and  society 
Of  the  rude  youth  whose  wild  and  boisterous  ways 
Had  scared  my  childish  life. 

I  nerved  my  heart 

To  meet  the  change ;    and  all  the  troubled  night 
I  tossed  upon  my  pillow,  filled  with  fears, 
Or  fired  with  hot  ambitions  ;    shrinking  oft 
W'ith  girlish  sensitiveness  from  the  lot 
My  manly  heart  had  chosen  ;    rising  oft 
Above  my  cowardice,  well  panoplied 
By  fancy  to  achieve  great  victories 
O'er  those  whose  fellows  I  should  be. 

At  last, 

The  dawn  looked  in  upon  me,  and  I  rose 
To  meet  its  golden  coming,  and  the  life 
Of  golden  promise  whose  wide-open  doors 
Waited  my  feet. 

The  lingering  morning  hours 
Seemed  days  of  painful  waiting,  as  they  fell 


160  KATHRINA. 

In  slowly  filling  numbers  from  the  tower 

Of  the  old  village  church  ;    but  when,  at  length, 

My  eager  feet  had  touched  the  street,  and  turned 

To  climb  the  goodly  eminence  where  he 

In  whose  profound  and  stately  pages  live 

His  country's  annals,  ruled  his  youthful  realm, 

My  heart  grew  stern  and  strong ;    and  nevermore 

Did  doubt  of  excellence  and  mastery 

Drag  down  my  soaring  courage,  or  disturb 

My  purposes  and  plans. 

What  boots  it  here 
To  tell  with  careful  chronicle  the  life 
Of  my  novitiate  ?     Up  the  graded  months 
My  feet  rose  slowly,  but  with  steady  step, 
To  tall  and  stalwart  manliness  of  frame, 
And  ever  rising  and  expanding  reach 
Of  intellection  and  the  power  to  call 
Forth  from  the  pregnant  nothingness  of  words 
The  sphered  creations  of  my  chosen  art. 
What  boots  it  to  recount  my  victories 
Over  my  fellows,  or  to  tell  how  all, 
Contemptuous  at  first,  became  at  length 
Confessed  inferiors  in  every  strife 
When  brain  or  brawn  contended  ?     Victories 
Were  won  too  easily  to  bring  me  pride, 
And  only  bred  contempt  of  the  low  pitch 
And  lower  purpose  of  the  power  which  strove 
So  feebly  and  so  clumsily.     When  won, 
They  fed  my  mother's  passion,  and  she  praised  ; 
And  her  delight  was  all  the  boon  they  brought. 
My  fierce  ambition,  ever  reaching  up 
To  higher  fields  and  nobler  combatants, 
Trampled  its  triumphs  underneath  its  feet ; 
And  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  pitied  her 


KATHRINA.  l6l 

To  whose  deep  hunger  of  maternal  pride 
They  bore  ambrosial  ministry. 

In  all 

These  years  of  doing  and  development, 
My  heart  was  haunted  by  a  bitter  pain. 
In  every  scene  of  pleasure,  every  hour 
That  lacked  employment,  every  moment's  lull 
Of  toil  or  study,  its  familiar  hand 
Was  raised  aloft,  to  smite  me  with  its  pang. 
From  month  to  month,  from  year  to  year,  I  saw 
That  she  who  bore  me,  and  to  whom  I  owed 
The  meek  and  loyal  reverence  of  a  child, 
Was  changing  places  with  me,  and  that  she — 
Dependent,  trustful  and  subordinate- 
Deferred  to  me  in  all  things,  and  in  all 
Gave  me  the  parent's  place  and  took  the  child's. 
She  waited  for  my  coming  like  a  child  ; 
She  ran  to  meet  aud  greet  me  like  a  child  ; 
She  leaned  on  me  for  guidance  and  defense, 
And  lived  in  me,  and  by  me,  like  a  child. 
If  I  were  absent  long  beyond  my  wont, 
She  yielded  to  distresses  and  to  tears  ; 
And  when  I  came,  she  flew  into  my  arms 
With  childish  impulse  of  delight,  or  chid 
With  weak  complainings  my  delay. 

By  these, 

And  by  a  thousand  other  childish  ways, 
I  knew  disease  was  busy  with  her  life, 
Working  distempers  in  her  heart  and  brain, 
And  driving  her  for  succor  to  my  strength. 
The  change  was  great  in  her,  though  slowly  wrought, — 
Though  wrought  so  slowly  that  my  thought  and  life 
Had  been  adjusted  to  it,  but  for  this  : — 


1 62  KATHRINA. 

One  dismal  night,  a  trivial  accident 

Had  kept  me  from  my  home  beyond  the  hour 

At  which  my  promise  stood  for  my  return. 

Arriving  at  the  garden  gate,  I  paused 

To  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  accustomed  light, 

Through  the  cold  mist  that  wrapped  me,  but  in  vain. 

Only  one  window  glimmered  through  the  gloom, 

Through  whose  uncurtained  panes  I  dimly  saw 

My  mother  in  her  chamber.     She  was  clad 

In  the  white  robe  of  rest  ;  but  to  and  fro 

She  crossed  the  light,  sometimes  with  hands  pressed  close 

Upon  her  brow,  sometimes  raised  up  toward  heaven, 

As  if  in  deprecation  or  despair  ; 

And  through  the  strident  soughing  of  the  elm 

I  heard  her  voice,  still  musical  in  woe, 

Wailing  and  calling. 

With  a  noiseless  step 

I  reached  the  door,  and,  with  a  noiseless  key, 
Turned  back  the  bolt,  and  stood  within.     I  could 
Have  called  her  to  my  arms,  and  quelled  her  fears 
By  one  dear  word,  and  yet,  I  spoke  it  not. 
I  longed  to  learn  her  secret,  and  to  know 
In  what  recess  of  history  or  heart 
It  hid,  and  wrought  her  awful  malady. 

Not  long  I  waited,  when  I  heard  her  voice 
Wail  out  again  in  wild,  beseeching  prayer, — 
Her  voice  so  sweet  and  soulful,  that  it  seemed 
As  if  a  listening  fiend  could  not  refuse 
Such  help  as  in  him  lay,  although  her  tongue 
Should  falter  to  articulate  her  pain. 

I  heard  her  voice — O  God !  I  heard  her  words  ! 
Not  bolts  of  burning  from  the  vengeful  sky 


KATHRINA.  163 

Had  scathed  or  stunned  me  more.     I  shook  like  one 

Powerless  within  the  toils  of  some  great  sin, 

Or  some  o'ermastering  passion  ;  or  like  one 

Whose  veins  turn  ice  at  onset  of  the  plague. 

"O  God,"  she  said,  "my  Father  and  my  Friend! 

Spare  him  to  me,  and  save  me  from  myself! 

O  !  if  thou  help  me  not — if  thou  forsake — 

This  hand  which  thou  hast  made,  will  take  the  life 

Thou  mad'st  the  hand  to  feed.     I  cling  to  him, 

My  son, — my  boy.     If  danger  come  to  him, 

No  one  is  left  to  save  me  from  this  crime. 

Thou  knowest,  O  !  my  God,  how  I  have  striven 

To  quench  the  awful  impulse  ;  how,  in  vain, 

My  prayers  have  gone  before  thee,  for  release 

From  the  foul  demon  who  would  drive  my  soul 

To  crime  that  leaves  no  space  for  penitence  ! 

0  !  Father !  Father !  Hear  me  when  I  call ! 
Hast  thou  not  made  me?     Am  I  not  thy  child? 
Why,  why  this  mad,  mysterious  desire 

To  follow  him  I  loved,  by  the  dark  door 
Through  which  he  forced  his  passage  to  the  realm 
That  death  throws  wide  to  all?     O  why  must  I, 
A  poor,  weak  woman — " 

I  could  hear  no  more, 

But  dropped  my  dripping  cloak,  and,  with  a  voice, 
Toned  to  its  tenderest  cadence,  I  pronounced 
The  sweet  word,  "mother!" 

Her  excess  of  joy 
Burst  in  a  cry,  and  in  a  moment's  space 

1  sat  within  her  room,  and  she,  my  child, 
Was  sobbing  in  my  arms.     I  spoke  no  word, 
But  sat  distracted  with  my  tenderness 

For  her  who  threw  herself  upon  my  heart 


1 64  KATHRINA. 

In  perfect  trust,  and  bitter  thoughts  of  Him 
Whose  succor,  though  importunately  sought 
In  piteous  pleadings  by  a  gentle  saint, 
Was  grudgingly  withheld.     Her  closing  words  : 
"  O  why  must  I,  a  poor,  weak  woman — "  rang 
Through  every  chamber  of  my  tortured  soul, 
And  called  to  conclave  and  rebellion  all 
The  black-browed  passions  thitherto  restrained. 

Ay,  why  should  she,  who  only  sought  for  God, 

Be  given  to  a  devil  ?     Why  should  she 

Who  begged  for  bread  be  answered  with  a  stone  ? 

Ay,  why  should  she  whose  soul  recoiled  from  sin 

As  from  a  fiend,  find  in  her  heart  a  fiend 

To  urge  the  sin  she  hated  ? — questions  all 

The  fiends  within  me  answered  as  they  would. 

0  God  !  O  Father !     How  I  hated  thee  ! 
Nay,  how  within  my  angry  soul  I  dared 
To  curse  thy  sacred  name ! 

Then  other  thoughts — 
Thoughts  of  myself  and  of  my  destiny- 
Succeeded.     Who  and  what  was  I  ?     A  youth, 
Doomed  by  hereditary  taint  to  crime, — 
A  youth  whose  every  artery  and  vein 
Was  doubly  charged  with  suicidal  blood. 
When  the  full  consciousness  of  what  I  was 
Possessed  my  thought,  and  I  gazed  down  the  abyss 
God  had  prepared  for  me,  I  shrank  aghast ; 
And  there  in  silence,  with  an  awful  oath 

1  dare  not  write,  I  swore  my  will  was  mine, 

And  mine  my  hand  ;  and  that,  though  all  the  fiends 
That  cumber  hell  and  overrun  the  earth 
Should  spur  the  deadly  impulse  of  my  blood, 
And  heaven  withhold  the  aid  I  would  not  ask ; 


KATHRINA.  165 

Though  woes  unnumbered  should  beset  my  life, 

And  reason  fall,  and  uttermost  despair 

Hold  me  a  hopeless  prisoner  in  its  glooms, 

I  would  resist  and  conquer,  and  live  out 

My  complement  of  years.     My  bosom  burned 

With  fierce  defiance,  and  the  angry  blood 

Leaped  from  my  heart,  and  boomed  within  my  brain 

With  throbs  that  stunned  me,  though  each  fiery  thrill 

Was  charged  with  tenderness  for  her  whose  head 

Was  pillowed  on  its  riot. 

Long  I  sat — 

How  long,  I  know  not — but  at  last  the  sad, 
Hysteric  sobs  and  suspirations  ceased, 
Or  only  at  wide  intervals  recurred  ; 
And  then  I  rose,  and  to  her  waiting  bed 
Led  my  doomed  mother.     With  a  cheerful  voice — 
Cheerful  as  I  could  summon — and  a  kiss, 
I  bade  her  a  good  night  and  pleasant  dreams ; 
And  then,  across  the  hall,  I  sought  my  room 
Where  neither  sleep  nor  dream  awaited  me, 
But  only  blasphemous,  black  thoughts,  and  strife 
With  God  and  Destiny. 

I  saw  it  all  : 

The  lamp  that  from  my  mother's  window  beamed, 
Illumined  other  nights  and  other  storms, 
And  by  its  lurid  light  revealed  to  me 
The  secrets  of  a  life.      Her  sudden  pangs, 
Her  brooding  woes,  her  terrors  when  alone, 
The  strange  surrender  of  her  will  to  mine, 
Her  hunger  for  my  presence,  and  her  fear 
That  by  some  slip  of  fortune  she  should  lose 
Her  hold  on  me,  were  followed  to  their  home — 
To  her  poor  heart,  that  fluttered  every  hour 


I  66  KATHRINA. 

With  conscious  presence  of  an  enemy 

That  would  not  be  expelled,  and  strove  to  spill 

The  life  it  spoiled. 

From  that  eventful  night 
She  was  not  left  alone.     I  called  a  friend, 
A  cheerful  lady,  whose  companionship 
Was  music,  medicine  and  rest ;  and  she, 
Wanting  a  home,  and  with  a  ready  wit 
Learning  my  mother's  need  and  my  desire, 
Assumed  the  place  of  matron  in  the  house  ; 
And,  in  return  for  what  we  gave  to  her, 
Gave  us  herself. 

.My  mother's  confidence, 
By  her  self-confidence,  she  quickly  won  ; 
And  thus,  though  sadly  burdened  at  my  heart, 
I  found  one  burden  lifted  from  my  hands. 
More  liberty  of  movement  and  of  toil 
1  needed  ;  for  the  time  was  drawing  near 
When  I  should  turn  my  feet  toward  other  halls, 
To  seek  maturer  study,  and  complete 
The  work  of  culture  faithfully  begun. 

Into  my  mother's  ear  I  breathed  my  plans 
With  careful  words.     The  university 
Was  but  a  short  remove — a  morning's  walk — 
Away  from  her  ;  and  ever  at  her  wish — 
Nay,  always  when  I  could — I  would  return  ; 
And  separation  would  but  sweeten  love, 
And  joy  of  meeting  recompense  the  pain 
Of  parting  and  of  absence. 

She  was  calm, 
And  leaning  in  her  thought  upon  her  friend, 


KATIIRINA.  167 

Gave  her  consent.     So,  on  a  summer  day, 
I  kissed  her  faded  cheek,  and  turned  from  home 
To  seek  the  college  halls  that  I  had  seen 
From  boyhood's  mount  of  vision. 

Of  the  years 

4 

Passed  there  in  study — of  the  rivalries, 

The  long,  stern  struggles  for  pre-eminence, 

The  triumphs  hardly  won,  but  won  at  last 

Beyond  all  cavil,  matters  not  to  tell. 

It  was  my  grief  that  while  I  gained  and  grew, 

My  mother  languished  momently,  and  lost, — 

A  grief  that  turned  to  poison  in  my  blood. 

The  college  prayers  were  mummeries  to  me, 

And  with  disdainful  passion  I  repelled 

All  Christian  questionings  of  heart  and  life, 

By  old  and  young. 

I  stood,  I  moved  alone. 
I  sought  no  favors,  took  no  courtesies 
With  grateful  grace,  and  nursed  my  haughty  pride. 
The    men    who    kneeled    and    gloomed,    and    prayed    and 

sang, 

Seemed  but  a  brood  of  dullards,  whom  contempt 
Would  honor  overmuch.     No  tender  spot 
Was  left  within  my  indurated  heart, 
Save  that  which  moved  with  ever-melting  ruth 
For  her  whose  breast  had  nursed  me,  and  whose  love 
Had  given  my  life  the  only  happiness 
It  yet  had  known. 

With  her  I  kept  my  pledge 
With  more  than  faithful  punctuality. 
Few  weeks  passed  by  in  all  those  busy  years 
In  which  I  did  not  walk  the  way  between 


1 68  KATHKINA. 

The  college  and  my  home,  and  bear  to  her 
Such  consolation  as  my  presence  gave. 
In  truth,  my  form  was  as  familiar  grown 
To  all  the  rustic  dwellers  on  the  road 
As  I  had  been  a  post-boy. 

Little  joy 

These  visits  won  for  me — little  beyond 
That  which  I  found  in  bearing  joy  to  her — 
For  every  year  marked  on  her  slender  frame, 
And  on  her  cheeks,  and  on  her  failing  brain, 
Its  record  of  decadence.     I  could  see 
That  she  was  sinking  into  helplessness, 
And  that  too  soon  her  inoffensive  soul, 
With  all  its  sweet  affections,  would  go  down 
To  hopeless  wreck  and  darkness. 

From  her  friend 

I  learned  that  still  the  burden  of  her  prayer 
Was,  that  she  might  be  saved  from  one  great  sin — 
The  sin  of  self-destruction.     Every  hour 
This  one  petition  struggled  from  her  heart, 
To  reach  the  ear  of  heaven  ;  yet  never  help 
Came  down  in  answer  to  her  cry. 

The  Spring 

That  ushered  in  my  closing  college-year 
Came  up  the  valley  on  her  balmy  wings, 
And  Winter  fled  away,  and  left  no  trace, 
Save  here  and  there  a  snowy  drift,  to  show 
Where  his  cold  feet  had  rested  in  their  flight. 
But  one  still  night,  within  the  span  of  sleep, 
A  shivering  winter  cloud  that  wandered  late 
Shook  to  the  frosty  ground  its  inch  of  rime. 
So,  when  the  morning  rose,  the  earth  was  white  ; 


'WHEN   THE  MORNING   ROSU.    THE  EARTH   WAS  WHITE." 


KATHRINA.  169 

And  shrubs  and  trees,  and  roofs  and  rocks  and  walls, 
Fulgent  with  downy  crystals,  made  a  world 
To  which  a  breath  were  ruin  ;  and  a  breath 
Wrecked  it  for  me,  and,  by  a  few  sad  words, 
Blotted  the  sunlit  splendor  from  my  sight. 

As  I  looked  out  upon  the  scene,  and  mused 
Of  her  to  whom  I  hoped  it  might  impart 
Some  healthy  touch  of  joy,  I  heard  the  beat 
Of  hoofs  upon  the  trackless  blank,  and  saw 
A  horseman  speeding  up  the  avenue. 
I  raised  my  sash  (I  knew  he  came  for  me), 
And  faltered  forth  my  question.     From  his  breast 
He  drew  a  folded  slip  :  dismounting  then, 
He  stooped  and  pressed  the  missive  in  a  mass 
Of  clinging  snow,  and  tossed  it  to  my  hand. 
I  closed  the  window,  burst  the  frosty  seal, 
And  read  :  "  Your  mother  cannot  long  survive  : 
Come  home  to  her  to-day."     I  did  not  pause 
To  break  the  fast  of  night,  but  rushing  forth, 
I  followed  close  the  messenger's  return. 

It  was  a  morning,  such  as  comes  but  once 
In  all  the  Spring,— so  still  and  beautiful, 
So  full  of  promise,  so  exhilarant 
With  frost  and  fire,  in  earth  and  air,  that  life 
Had  been  a  brimming  joy  but  for  the  scene 
That  waited  for  my  eyes — the  scene  of  death — 
From  which  imagination  staggered  back, 
And  every  sensibility  recoiled. 

The  smoke  from  distant  sugar-camps  rolled  up 
Through  the  still  ether  in  columnar  coils — 
Blue  pillars  of  a  bluer  dome— and  all 
The  resonant  air  was  full  of  sounds  of  Spring. 
8 


I/O  KATIIRINA. 

The  sheep  were  bleating  round  their  empty  ricks  ; 

Horses  let  loose  were  calling  from  afar, 

And  winning  fierce  replies  ;    the  axman's  blows 

Fell  nimbly  at  the  piles  which  wintry  woods 

Had  lent  to  summer  stores ;    while  far  and  faint, 

The  rhythmic  ululations  of  the  hound 

On  a  fresh  trail,  upon  the  mountain's  side, 

Added  their  s.trange  wild  music  to  the  morn. 

The  beauty  and  the  music  caught  my  sense, 
But  woke  within  my  sick  and  sinking  heart 
No  motion  of  response.     I  walked  as  one 
Condemned  to  dungeon -glooms  might  walk 
Through  shouts  of  mirth  and  festal  pageantry, 
Hearing  and  seeing  all,  yet  over  all 
Hearing  the  clank  of  chains  and  clash  of  bars, 
And  seeing  but  the  reptiles  of  his  cell. 

How  I  arrived  at  home,  without  fatigue, 
Without  a  thought  of  effort — onward  borne 
By  one  absorbing  and  impelling  thought — 
As  one  within  a  minute's  mete  may  slide, 
O'er  leagues  of  sunny  dreamland  in  a  dream, 
By  magic  or  by  miracle — I  found 
No  time  to  question. 

At  my  mother's  door 

I  stood  and  listened  :    soon  I  heard  my  name 
Pronounced  within  in  spiteful  whisperings. 
I  raised  the  latch,  and  met  her  burning  eyes. 
She  stared  a  wild,  mad  stare,  then  raised  herself, 
And  in  weak  fury  poured  upon  my  head 
The  vials  of  her  wrath.     I  stood  like  stone, 
Without  the  power  to  speak,  the  while  she  rained 
Her  maledictions  on  me,  and  in  words 


KATHRINA.  i;i 

Fit  only  for  the  damned,  accused  my  life 

Of  crimes  my  language  could  not  name,  and  deeds 

Which  only  outcast  wretches  know. 

At  length, 

I  gained  my  tongue,  and  tried  to  take  her  hand ; 
But  with  a  shriek  which  cut  me  like  a  knife 
She  shrank  from  me,  and  hid  her  quivering  face 
Within  her  pillow. 

Then  I  turned  away, 

And  sought  the  room  where  oft  in  better  days 
We  both  had  knelt  together  at  my  bed, 
And,  making  fast  my  door,   I  threw  myself 
Prone  on  the  precious  couch,  and  gave  to  grief 
My  strong  and  stormy  nature.     All  the  day 
With  bursts  of  passion  I  bewailed  my  loss, 
Or  lay  benumbed  in  feeling  and  in  thought, 
Tasting  no  food,  and  shutting  out  my  soul 
From  all  approach  of  human  sympathy, 
Till  the  light  waned,  and  through  the  leafless  boughs 
Of  the  old  elm  I  caught  the  sheen  of  stars. 

Then  sleep  descended — such  a  sleep  as  comes 
To  uttermost  exhaustion, — sleep  with  dreams 
Wild  as  the  waking  fantasies  of  her 
Whose  screams  and  incoherent  words  gave  voice 
To  all  their  phantom  brood. 

At  length  I  woke. 

The  house  was  still  as  death  ;    and  yet  1  heard, 
Or  thought  1  heard,  the  touch  of  crafty  feet 
Upon  the  carpet,  creeping  by  my  door. 
It  passed  away,  away  ;    and  then  a  pause, 
Still  and  presageful  as  the  breathless  calm 


172  KATHRINA. 

On  which  the  storm-cloud  mounts  the  pallid  West, 
Succeeded.     I  could  hear  the  parlor-clock 
Counting  the  beaded  silence,  and  my  bed, 
Rustling  beneath  my  breathing  and  my  pulse, 
Was  sharply  crepitant,  and  gave  me  pain. 


An  hour  passed  by  (it  loitered  like  an  age), 

And  then  came  hurried  words  and  hasty  fall 

Of  footsteps  in  the  passage.     I  could  hear 

Screams,  sobs,  and  whispered  calls  and  closing  doors, 

And  heavy  feet  that  jarred  my  bed,  and  shook 

The  windows  of  my  room.     I  did  not  stir  : 

I  dared  not  stir,  but  lay  in  deathly  dread, 

Waiting  the  sad  denouement.     Soon  it  came. 

A  man  approached  my  door,  and  tried  the  latch  ; 

Then  knocked,  and  called.     I  knew  the  kindly  voice 

Of  the  physician,  and  threw  back  the  bolt. 

Then  by  the  light  he  held  before  his  face 

I  read  the  fact  of  death. 


I  took  his  arm, 

And,  as  I  feebly  staggered  down  the  stairs, 
He  broke  to  me  with  lack  of  useless  words 
The  awful  truth.     .     .     .     The  old  familiar  tale  : 
She  counterfeited  sleep  :    the  nurses  both, 
Weary  with  over-watching  in  their  chairs, 
Under  the  cumbrous  stillness,  slept  indeed  ; 
And  when  she  knew  it,  she  escaped  ;    and  then 
She  did  the  deed  to  which  for  many  years 
She  had  been  predisposed.     Perhaps  I  knew 
The  nature  of  the  case  :    perhaps  I  knew 
My  father  went  that  way.     I  clutched  his  arm  : 
There  was  no  need  of  words. 


KATHRINA.  173 

The  parlor  door 

Stood  open,  and  a  throng  of  silent  friends, 
Choking  with  tears,  gazed  on  a  silent  form 
Shrouded  in  snowy  linen.     They  made  way 
For  me  and  my  companion.     On  my  knees 
I  clasped  the  precious  clay,  and  pouring  forth 
My  pitying  love  and  tenderness  for  her, 
I  gave  indignant  voice  to  my  complaint 
Against  the  Being  who,  to  all  her  prayers 
For  succor  and  security,  had  turned 
A  deaf,  dead  ear  and  a  repelling  hand. 

To  what  blaspheming  utterance  I  gave 

My  raving  passion,  may  the  God  I  cursed 

Forbid  my  shrinking  memory  to  recall  J 

I  now  remember  only  that  when  drawn 

By  strong,  determined  hands  away  from  her, 

The  room  was  vacant.     Every  pitying  friend 

Had  flown  my  presence  and  the  room,  to  find 

Release  of  sensibility  from  words 

That  roused  their  superstitious  souls  to  fear 

That  God  would  smite  me  through  the  blinding  smoke 

Of  my  great  torment. 

Silence,  for  the  rest ! 
It  was  a  dream  ;  and  only  as  a  dream 
Do  I  remember  it  :    the  coffined  form, 
The  funeral— a  concourse  of  the  town — 
The  trembling  prayer  for  me,  the  choking  sobs, 
The  long  procession,  the  descending  clods, 
The  slow  return,  articulated  all 
With  wild,  mad  words  of  mine,  and  gentle  speech 
Of  those  who  sought  to  curb  or  comfort  me — 
All  was  a  dream,  from  which  I  woke  at  length 
With  heart  as  dead  as  her's  who  slept.     The  heavens 


174  KATIIRINA. 

Were  brass  above  me,  and  the  breathing  world 

Was  void  and  meaningless.     When  told  to  pray, 

This  was  the  logic  of  my  heart's  reply  : 

If  God  be  Love,  not  such  is  He  to  me 

Nor  such  to  mine.     If  He  heard  not  the  voice 

Of  such  a  lovely  saint  as  she  I  mourned, 

Mine  would  but  rouse  His  vengeance. 

So  I  closed 

With  Reason's  hand  the  adamantine  doors 
Which  only  Faith  unlocks,  and  shut  my  soul 
Away  from  God,  the  warder  of  a  gang 
Of  passions  that  in  darkness  stormed  or  gloomed  ; 
And  with  each  other  fought,  or  on  themselves 
Gnawed  for  the  nourishment  which  I  denied. 


COMPLAINT. 

RIVER,  sparkling  river,  I  have  fault  to  find  with  thee  : 
River,  thou  dost  never  give  a  word  of  peace  to  me ! 
Dimpling  to  each  touch  of  sunshine,  wimpling  to  each  air 

that  blows, 
Thou  dost  make  no  sweet  replying  to  my  sighing  for  repose. 

Flowers  of  mount  and  meadow,  I  have  fault  to  find  with  you  ; 
So  the  breezes  cross  and  toss  you,  so  your  cups  are  filled 

with  dew, 
Matters  not  though  sighs  give  motion  to  the  ocean  of  your 

breath ; 
Matters  not   though   you  are  filling  with  the  chilling  drops 

of  death ! 

Birds    of  song  and    beauty,   lo !      I   charge    you   all  with 

blame : — 
Though  all  hapless  passions  thrill  and  fill  me,  you  are  still 

the  same. 

I  can  borrow  for  my  sorrow  nothing  that  avails 
From  your  lonely  note,  that  only  speaks  of  joy  that  never 

fails. 

O  !   indifference  of  Nature  to  the  fact  of  human  pain ! 
Every  grief  that  seeks  relief  entreats  it  at  her  hand  in  vain  ; 
Not  a  bird  speaks  forth  its  passion,  not  a  river  seeks  the  sea, 
Nor   a  flower   from   wreaths  of  Summer  breathes   in   sym 
pathy  with  me. 


1/6  KATHRINA. 

O  !  the  rigid  rock  is  frigid,  though  its  bed  be  summer  mould, 
And  the  diamond  glitters  ever   in  the  grasp  of  changeless 

gold; 
And  the   laws  that  bring  the  seasons  swing  their  cycles  as 

they  must, 
Though  the  ample  road   they  trample  blind    the  eyes  with 

human  dust.   / 


Moons  will  wax  in  argent  glory,  though  man  wane  to  hope 
less  gloom  ; 

Stars  will  sparkle  in  their  splendor,  though  he  darkle  to 
his  doom  ; 

Winds  of  heaven  he  calls  to  fan  him  ban  him  with  an  icy 
chill, 

And  the  shifting  crowds  of  clouds  go  drifting  o'er  him  as 
they  will. 


Yet  within  my  inmost  spirit  I  can  hear  an  undertone, 
That  by  law  of  prime   relation   holds    these   voices   as   its 

own, — 
The    full    tonic    whose    harmonic    grandeurs   rise    through 

Nature's  words, 
From   the  ocean's   thundrous  rolling   to  the   trolling  of  the 

birds. 


•    Spirit,  O  !   my  spirit !     Is  it  thou  art  out  of  tune  ? 

Art   thou   clinging   to   December  while   the   earth   is  in  its 

June  ? 
Hast  thou  dropped  thy  part  in  nature  ?     Hast  thou  touched 

another  key  ? 
Art  thou  angry  that  the  anthem  will  not,  cannot,  wait  for 

thee? 


KATHRINA.  177 

Spirit,  thou  art  left  alone — alone  on  waters  wild ; 

For   God   is  gone,  and   Love   is  dead,  and   Nature  spurns 

her  child. 

Thou  art  drifting  in  a  deluge,  waves  below  and  clouds  above, 
And  with  weary  wings  come   back  to   thee,  thy  raven  and 

thy  dove. 
8* 


PART   II. 

LOVE. 

As  from  a  deep,  dead  sea,  by  drastic  lift 

Of  pent  volcanic  fires,  the  dripping  form 

Of  a  new  island  swells  to  meet  the  air, 

And,  after  months  of  idle  basking,  feels 

The  prickly  feet  of  life  from  countless  germs 

Creeping  along  its  sides,  and  reaching  up 

In  fern  and  flower  to  the  life-giving  sun, 

So  from  my  grief  I  rose,  and  so  at  length 

I  felt  new  life  returning  :  so  I  felt 

The  life  already  wakened  stretching  forth 

To  stronger  light  and  purer  atmosphere. 

But  most  I  longed  for  human  love — the  source 

(So  sadly  closed),  from  which  my  life  had  drawn 

Its  sweetest  inspiration  and  reward. 

I  could  not  pray,  nor  could  my  spirit  win 

From  sights  and  sounds  of  nature  the  response 

It  vaguely  yearned  for.     They  assailed  my  sense 

With  senseless  seeming  of  the  hum  and  whirl 

Of  vast  machinery,  whose  motive  power 

Sought  its  own  ends,  or  wrought  for  ministry 

To  other  life  than  mine. 

I  could  stand  still, 

And  see  the  trains  sweep  by  ;  could  hear  the  roar 
Of  thundering  wheels  ;  could  watch  the  pearly  plumes 


180  KATHRINA. 

That  floated  where  they  flew ;  could  catch  a  glimpse 
Of  thousand  happy  faces  at  the  glass  ; 
But  felt  that  all  their  freighted  life  and  wealth 
Were  nought  to  me,  and  moved  toward  other  souls 
In  other  latitudes. 

A  year  had  flown, 

And  more,  when,  on  a  Sunday  morn  in  June, 
I  wandered  out,  to  wear  away  the  hours 
Of  growing  restlessness.     The  worshipers 
Were  thronging  to  the  service  of  the  day, 
And  gave  me  sidelong  stare,  or  shunned  me  quite ; 
As  if  they  knew  me  for  a  reprobate, 
And  feared  a  taint  of  death. 

I  took  the  road 

That  eastward  cleft  the  town,  and  sought  the  bridge 
That  spanned  the  river,  reaching  which  I  crossed. 
Then  deep  within  the  stripes  of  springing  corn 
I  found  the  shadow  of  an  elm,  and  lay 
Stretched  on  the  downy  grass  for  listless  hours, 
Dreaming  of  days  gone  by,  or  turning  o'er 
With  careless  hand  the  pages  of  a  book 
I  had  brought  with  me. 

Tired  at  length  I  rose, 

And,  touched  by  some  light  impulse,  moved  along 
The  old,  familiar  road.     I  loitered  on 
In  a  blind  revery,  nor  marked  the  while 
The  furlongs  or  the  time,  until  the  spell 
In  a  full  burst  of  music  was  dissolved. 
I  startled  as  one  startles  from  a  dream, 
And  saw  the  church  of  Hadley,  from  whose  doors, 
Open  to  summer  air,  the  choral  hymn 
Poured  out  its  measured  tides,  and  rose  and  fell 


"  I  TOOK  THE  ROAD 
THAT  EASTWARD  CLEFT  THE  TOWN." 


KATHRINA.  l8l 

Upon  the  silence  in  broad  cadences, 
As  from  a  far,  careering  sea,  the  waves 
Lift  into  silver  swells  the  sleeping  breasts 
Of  land-locked  bays. 

I  heard  the  sound  of  flutes 
And  hoarse,  sonorous  viols,  in  accord 
With  happy  human  voices, — and  one  voice — 
A  woman's  or  an  angel's — that  compelled 
My  feet  to  swift  approach.     A  thread  of  gold, 
Through  all  the  web  of  sound,  I  followed  it 
Till,  by  the  stress  of  some  strange  sympathy, 
And  by  no  act  of  will,   I  joined  my  voice 
To  that  one  voice  of  melody,  and  sang. 

The  heart  is  wiser  than  the  intellect, 

And  works  with  swifter  hands  and  surer  feet 

Toward  wise  conclusions.     So,  without  resort 

To  reason,  in  my  heart  I  knew  that  she 

Who  sang  had  suffered — knew  that  she  had  grieved, 

Had  hungered,  struggled,  kissed  the  cheek  of  death, 

And  ranged  the  scale  of  passions  till  her  soul 

Was  deep,  and  wide,  and  soft  with  sympathy  ; — 

Nay,  more  than  this  :  that  she  had  found  at  last 

Peace  like  a  river,  on  whose  waveless  tide 

She  floated  while  she  sang.     This  was  the  key 

That  loosed  my  prisoned  voice,  and  filled  my  eyes 

With  tender  tears,  and  touched  to  life  again 

My  better  nature. 

When  the  choral  closed, 
And  the  last  chord  in  silence  lapsed  away, 
I  raised  my  eyes,  and,  nodding  to  the  beck 
Of  the  old,  slippered  sexton,  I  went  in, — 
Not  (shall  it  be  confessed  ?)  to  find  the  God 


1 82  KATHRINA. 

At  whose  plain  altar  bowed  the  rural  throng ; 
But,  through  a  voice,  to  follow  to  its  source 
The  influence  that  moved  me. 

I  was  late  ; 

And  many  eyes  looked  up  as  I  advanced 
Through  the  broad  aisle,  and  took  a  seat  that  turned 
My  face  to  all  the  faces  in  the  house. 
I  scanned  the  simpering  girls  within  the  choir, 
But  found  not  what  I  sought ;   and  then  my  eyes 
With  rambling  inquisition  swept  the  pews, 
Pausing  at  every  maiden  face  in  vain. 
One  head,  that  crowned  a  tall  and  slender  form, 
Was  bowed  with  reverent  grace  upon  the  rail 
Before  her  ;  and,  although  I  caught  no  glimpse 
Of  her  sweet  face,  I  knew  such  face  was  there, 
And  there  the  voice. 

It  was  Communion  Day. 
The  simple  table  underneath  the  desk 
Was  draped  with  linen,  on  whose  snow  was  spread 
The  feast  of  love — the  vases  filled  with  wine, 
The  separated  bread  and  circling  cups. 
The  venerable  pastor  had  come  down 
From  his  high  pulpit,  and  assumed  the  seat 
Of  presidence,  and,  with  benignant  eyes, 
Sat  smiling  on  his  flock.     The  deacons  all 
Rose  from  their  pews — four  old,  brown-handed  men, 
With  frosty  hair — and  took  the  ancient  chairs 
That  flanked  the  table.     All  the  house  was  still 
Save  here  and  there  the  rustle  of  a  silk 
Or  folding  of  a  fan  ;  and  over  all 
Brooded  the  dove  of  peace.     I  had  no  part 
In  the  fair  spectacle,  but  I  could  feel 
That  it  was  beautiful  and  sweet  as  heaven. 


KATHRINA.  183 

When  the  old  pastor  rose,  with  solemn  mien, 

I  looked  to  see  the  lady  lift  her  head  ; 

But  still  she  bowed  ;  and  then  I  heard  these  words  : 

"  The  person  who  unites  with  us  to-day 

Will  take  her  place  before  me  in  the  aisle, 

To  give  her  answer  to  our  creed,  and  speak 

The  pledges  of  our  covenant." 

Then  first 

I  saw  her  face.     With  modest  grace  she  rose, 
Lifted  her  hat,  and  gave  it  to  the  hand 
Of  a  companion,  and  within  the  aisle 
Stood  out  alone.     My  heart  beat  thick  and  fast 
With  vision  of  her  perfect  loveliness, 
And  apprehension  of  the  heroism 
That  shone  within  her  eyes,  and  made  her  act 
A  Christ-like  sacrifice. 

O  !  eyes  of  blue  ! 

O  !  lily  throat  and  cheeks  of  faintest  rose ! 
O !  brow  serene,  enthroned  in  holy  thought ! 

0  !  soft,  brown  sweeps  of  hair !  O !  shapely  grace 
Of  maidenhood,  enrobed  in  virgin  white! 

Why,  in  your  rapt  unconsciousness  of  me 
And  all  around  you — in  the  presence-hall 
Of  God  and  angels — at  the  marriage-feast 
Of  Jesus  and  his  chosen — did  my  eyes 
Profane  the  hour  with  other  feast  than  yours  ? 

1  heard  the  "You  Believe"  of  the  old  creed 
Of  puritan  New  England  ;  and  I  heard 

The  old  "  You  Promise  "  of  its  covenant. 
Her  bow  of  reverent  assent  to  all 
The  knotty  dogmas,  and  her  silent  pledge 
Of  faithfulness  and  fellowship,  I  saw. 


1 84  KATHRINA. 

These  formularies  were  the  frame  of  oak — • 
Gnarled,  strongly  carved,  and  swart  with  age  and  use- 
Which  held  the  lovely  picture  of  my  saint, 
And  showed  her  saintliness  and  beauty  well. 

At  close  of  the  recital  and  response, 

The  pastor  raised  the  plain,  baptismal  bowl, 

And  she,  the  maiden  devotee,  advanced 

And  knelt  before  him.     Lifting  then  her  eyes 

To  him  and  heaven,  with  look  of  earnest  faith 

And  perfect  consecration,  she  received 

Upon  her  brow  the  water  from  his  hand. 

The  trickling  chrism  shone  on  her  cheeks  like  tears, 

The  while  he  joined  her  lovely  name  with  God's  : 

"  KATHRINA,  I  BAPTIZE  THEE  IN  THE  NAME 
OF  FATHER,  SON,  AND  HOLY  GHOST,  AMEN  ! " 

Still  kneeling  like  a  saint  before  a  shrine, 

She  closed  her  eyes.     Then  lifting  up  toward  heaven 

His  hands,  the  pastor  prayed, — prayed  that  her  soul 

Might  be  forever  kept  from  stain  and  sin  ; 

That  Christ  might  live  in  her,  and  through  her  life 

Shine  into  other  souls  ;    might  give  her  strength 

To  master  all  temptation,  and  to  keep 

The  vows  that  day  assumed  ;    might  comfort  her 

In  every  sorrow,  and,  in  death's  dread  hour, 

Bear  her  in  hopeful  triumph  to  the  rest 

Prepared  for  those  who  love  him. 

All  this  scene 

I  saw  through  blinding  tears.     The  poetry 
That  like  a  soft  aureola  embraced 
Within  its  cope  those  two  contrasted  forms  ; 
The  eager  observation  and  the  hush 


KATHRINA.  185 

That  reigned  through  all  the  house  ;    the  breathless  spell 

Of  sweet  solemnity  and  tender  awe 

Which  held  all  hearts,  when  she,  The  Beautiful, 

Received  the  sign  of  marriage  to  The  Good, 

O'erwhelmed  me,  and  I  wept.     Shall  I  confess 

That  in  the  struggle  to  repress  my  tears 

And  hold  my  swelling  heart,  I  grudged  her  gift, 

And  felt  that,  by  the  measure  she  had  risen, 

She  had  put  space  between  herself  and  me, 

And  quenched  my  hope  ? 


She  stood  while  courtesy 
Of-  formal  Christian  welcome  was  bestowed  ; 
Then  straightway  sought  her  seat,  as  though  no  eyes 
But  those  of  One  unseen  observed  her  steps. 
I  saw  her  taste  the  sacramental  bread, 
And  touch  the  silver  chalice  to  her  lips  ; 
And  while  she  thought  of  Him,  The  Spotless  One 
Whose  flesh  and  blood  were  symboled  to  her  heart, 
And  worshiped  in  her  thought,  I  ate  and  drank 
Her  virgin  beauty — with  what  guilty  sense 
Of  profanation ! 


Last,  the  closing  hymn 

Gave  me  her  voice  again  ;    and  this  I  drank  ; 
Nay,  this  invaded  and  pervaded  me. 
Its  subtile  search  found  out  the  sleeping  chords 
Of  sympathy  ;    and  on  the  bridge  of  sound 
It  built  between  our  souls,  I  crossed,  and  saw 
Into  the  depths  of  purity  and  love — 
The  full,  pathetic  power  of  womanhood — 
From  which  the  structure  sprang.     Just  once 
I  caught  her  eyes.     She  blushed  with  consciousness 


1 86  KATHRINA. 

Of  my  strong  gaze  ;   but  paused  not  in  her  hymn 
Till  she  had  given  to  every  word  the  wings 
That  bore  it,  like  a  singing  bird,  toward  heaven. 

The  benediction  fell  ;    and  then  the  throng 

Passed  slowly  out.     I  was  the  last  to  go. 

I  saw  a  man  whom  I  had  known,  and  shrank 

Both  from  his  greetings  and  his  questionings. 

One  thing  I  learned  :    that  she  who  thus  had  joined 

This  cluster  of  disciples  was  not  born 

And  reared  among  their  number  :    that  was  plain. 

I  saw  it  in  her  bearing  and  her  dress  ; 

In  that  unconsciousness  of  self  that  comes 

Of  gentle  breeding,  and  society 

Of  gentle  men  and  women  ;    in  the  ease 

With  which  she  bore  the  awkward  deference 

Of  those  who  spoke  with  her  adown  the  aisle  ; 

In  distant  and  admiring  gaze  of  men, 

And  the  cold  scrutiny  of  village  girls 

Who  passed  for  belles. 

I  stood  upon  the  steps — 

The  last  who  left  the  door — and  there  I  found 
The  lady  and  her  friend.     The  elder  turned, 
And  with  a  cordial  greeting  took  my  hand, 
And  rallied  me  on  my  forgetfulness. 
Her  eyes,  her  smile,  her  manner  and  her  voice 
Touched  the  quick  springs  of  memory,  and  I  spoke 
Her  name. 

She  was  my  mother's  early  friend, 
Whose  face  I  had  not  seen  in  all  the  years 
That  had  flown  over  us,  since,  from  her  door, 
I  chased  her  lamb  to  where  I  found — myself. 
She  spoke  with  tender  words  and  swimming  eyes 


KATHRINA.  1 87 

Of  her  I  mourned,  and  questioned  me  like  one 

Who  felt  a  mother's  anxious  interest 

In  all  my  cares  and  plans.     Why  did  I  not 

In  all  my  maunderings  and  wanderings 

Remember  I  had  friends,  and  visit  them — 

Not  missing  her  ?     Her  niece  was  with  her  now  ; 

Would  live  with  her,  perhaps — ("a  lovely  girl!" — 

In  whisper)  ;    and  they  both  would  so  much  like 

To  see  me  at  their  house  !    (whisper  again  : 

"  Poor  child  !     I  fear  it  is  but  dull  for  her, 

Here  in  the  country.")     Then  with  sudden  thought — 

"  Kathrina!" 

With  a  blushing  smile  she  turned 
(She  had  heard  every  word),  and  then  her  aunt — 
Her  voluble,  dear  aunt — presented  me 
As  an  old  friend — the  son  of  an  old  friend — 
Whose  eyes  had  promised  he  would  visit  them, 
Although,  in  her  monopoly  of  speech, 
She  had  quite  shut  him  from  the  chance  to  say 
So  much  as  that. 

I  caught  the  period 

Quick  as  it  dropped,  and  spoke  the  happiness 
I  had  in  meeting  them,  and  gave  the  pledge — 
No  costly  thing  to  give — to  end  my  walks 
On  pleasant  nightfalls  at  the  little  house 
Under  the  mountain. 

I  had  spoken  more, 

But  then  the  carriage,  with  its  single  horse, 
For  which  they  waited,  rattled  to  the  steps, 
And  we  descended.     To  their 'lofty  seats 
1  helped  the  pair,  and  in  my  own  I  held 
For  one  sweet  moment,  hand  of  all  the  hands 


1 88  KATHRINA. 

In  the  wide  world  I  longed  to  clasp  the  most. 
A  courteous  "  Good  Evening,  Sir,"  was  all  I  won 
From  its  possessor ;    but  her  lively  aunt 
With  playful  menace  shook  her  fan  at  me, 
And  said:    "Remember,  Paul!"  and  rode  away. 

"  A  worldly  woman,  Sir  !  "  growled  a  grum  throat. 

I  turned,  and  saw  the  sexton.     Query:    •'  which?" 

"I  mean  the  aunt."  .  .  .  "And  what  about  the  niece?" 

"Too  fine  for  common  people!"    (with  a  shrug). 

"  I  think  she  is,"  I  said,  with  quiet  voice, 

And  turned  my  feet  toward  home. 

A  pious  girl  ! 

And  what  could  I  be  to  a  pious  girl  ? 
What  could  she  be  to  me  ?     Weak  questions,  these, 
And  vain  perhaps  ;    but  such  as  young  men  ask 
On  slighter  spur  than  mine. 

She  had  bestowed 

Her  love,  her  life,  her  goodly  self  on  heaven, 
And  had  been  nobly  earnest  in  her  gift. 
Before  all  lovers  she  had  chosen  Christ ; 
Before  all  idols,  God  ;  before  all  wish 
And  will  of  loving  man,  her  heart  and  hand 
Were  pledged  to  duty.     Could  she  be  a  wife? 
Could  she  be  mine,  with  such  unstinted  wealth 
Of  love,  and  love's  devotion,  as  I  craved  ? 
Would  she  not  leave  me  for  a  Sunday  School 
Before  the  first  moon's  wane  ?     Would  she  not  seek 
The  cant  and  snuffle  of  conventicles 
"  At  early  candle-light,"  and  sing  her  hymns 
To  driveling  boors,  and  cheat  me  of  her  songs  ? 
Would  she  exhaust  herself  in  "  doing  good  " 
After  the  modern  styles — in  patching  quilts, 


KATHRINA.  189 

And  knitting  socks,  and  bearing  feeble  tracts 

To  dirty  little  children — not  to  speak 

Of  larger  work  for  missionary  folk  ? 

Would  there  not  come  a  time  (O  !  fateful  time  !) 

When  Dorcas  and  her  host  would  fill  my  house, 

And  I  by  courtesy  be  held  at  home 

To  entertain  their  twaddle,  and  to  smile, 

While  in  God's  name  and  lovely  Charity's 

They  would  consume  my  substance  ?     Would  she  not 

Become  the  stern  and  stately  president 

Of  some  society,  or  figure  in  the  list 

Of  slim  directresses  in  spectacles  ? 


So  much  for  questions  :  then  reflections  came. 

These  pious  women  make  more  careful  wives 

Than  giddy  ones.     They  do  not  run  away, 

Though,  doubtless,  husbands  live  whose  hearts  would  heal, 

Broken  by  such  a  blow !     The  time  they  give 

To  worship  and  to  pious  offices 

Defrauds  the  mirror  mainly  ;  and  the  gold 

That  goes  for  charity  goes  not  for  gems. 


Besides,  these  pious  and  believing  wives 

Make  gentle  mothers,  who,  with  self-control 

And  patient  firmness,  train  their  children  well — 

A  fact  to  be  remembered.     But,  alas  ! 

They  train  their  husbands  too,  and  undertake 

A  mission  to  their  souls,  so  gently  pushed, 

So  tenderly,  they  may  not  take  offense, 

Or  punish  with  rebuff;  and  yet,  dear  hearts  ! 

With  such  persistence,  that  they  reach  the  raw 

Before  they  know  it  :  so  it  comes  to  tears 

At  last,  with  comfort  in  an  upper  room. 


1 90  KATHRINA. 

But  then — a  seal  is  sacred  to  them,  and  a  purse 
Or  pocket-book,  though  in  a  dressing-room 
With  shutters  and  a  key  ! 

Thus  wrapped  in  thought 
And  selfish  calculation  of  the  claims 
Of  one  my  peer,  or  my  superior, 
In  every  personal  and  moral  grace, 
I  walked  along,  till,  on  my  consciousness, 
Flashed  the  absurdity  of  my  conceits 
And  my  assumptions,  and  I  laughed  outright — 
Laughed  at  myself,  so  loudly  and  so  long 
That  I  was  startled.     Not  for  many  months 
Had  sound  of  mirth  escaped  me  ;  and  my  voice 
Rang  strangely  in  my  ears,  as  if  the  lips 
Of  one  long  dead  had  spoken. 

I  received 

The  token  of  returning  healthfulness 
With  warm  self-gratulation.     I  had  touched 
The  magic  hand  that  held  new  life  for  me  : 
The  cloud  was  lifted,  and  the  burden  gone. 
The  leaf  within  my  book  of  fate,  that  gloomed 
With  awful  records,  washed  and  blotched  by  tears — 
Blown  by  a  woman's  breath  from  finger- tips 
They  knew  not  what  they  did — was  folded  back  ; 
And  all  the  next  white  page  held  but  one  word, 
One  word  of  gold  and  flame — its  title-crown — 
That  wrought  a  rosy  nimbus  for  itself ; 
And  that  one  word  was  LOVE. 

The  laggard  days 

My  pride  or  my  propriety  imposed 
Upon  desire,  before  my  eyes  could  see 
The  object  of  my  new-born  passion,  passed  ; 


'THE  LOW   HOURS  OF  AN   AFTERNOON. 


KATHRINA.  IQI 

And  in  the  low  hours  of  an  afternoon, 
Bright  with  the  largess  of  kingly  shower 
Whose  chariot-wheels  still  thundered  in  the  East, 
Leaving  the  West  aflame,  I  sought  the  meads, 
And  once  again,  thrilled  by  fore-tasted  joy, 
Walked  toward  the  mountain. 


While  I  walked,  the  rain 
Fell  like  a  veil  of  gauze  between  my  eyes 
And  the  blue  wall  ;  and  from  the  precious  spot 
That  held  the  object  of  my  thought,  there  sprang 
An  iridal  effulgence,  faint  at  first, 
But  brightening  fast,  and  leaping  to  an  arch 
That  spanned  the  heavens — a  miracle  of  light ! 


"  There's  treasure  where  the  rainbow  rests,"  I  said. 

Would  it  evade  me,  as,  for  years  untold, 

It  had  evaded  every  childish  dupe 

Whose  feet  had  chased  the  bright,  elusive  cheat  ? 

Would  it  evade  me  ?     Question  that  arose, 

And  loomed  with  darker  front  and  huger  form 

Than  the  dark  mountain,  and  more  darkly  loomed 

And  higher  rose  as  the  long  path  grew  short ! 

Would  it  evade  me  ?     Like  a  passing  smile 

The  rainbow  faded  from  the  mountain's  face  ; 

And  Hope's  resplendent  iris,  which  illumed 

My  question,  grew  phantasmal,  and  at  length 

Evanished,  leaving  but  a  doubtful  blur. 

Would  it  evade  me  ?     Gods  !  what  wealth  or  waste 

Of  precious  life  awaited  the  reply  ! 

Was  it  a  coward's  shudder  that  o'erswept 

My  frame  at  thought  of  possible  repulse 

And  possible  relapse  ? 


192  KATHRINA. 

"Oh!  there  he  comes!" 
I  heard  the  mistress  of  the  cottage  say 
Behind  a  honeysuckle.     Did  I  smile? 
It  was  because  the  fancy  crossed  me  then 
That  the  announcement  was  like  one  which  rings 
Over  the  polar  seas,  when,  from  his  perch, 
The  lookout  bruits  a  long-expected  whale  ! 
Then  sweeping  the  piazza,  from  the  spot 
Where  with  her  niece  she  sat,  she  hailed  me  with  : 
"So,  you  are  come  at  last!     How  very  sad 
These  men  have  so  much  business  !     Tell  me  how 
You  got  away  ;  how  soon  you  must  return  ; 
Who  suffers  by  your  absence  ;  what  the  news, 
And  whether  you  are  well." 

Brisk  medicine 

These  words  to  me,  and  timely  given.     They  broke 
The  spell  of  fear,  and  banished  my  restraint. 
She  took  my  arm,  and  led  me  to  her  niece, 
Who  greeted  me  as  if  some  special  grace 
Of  courtesy  were  due,  to  make  amends 
For  the  familiar  badinage  her  aunt 
Had  poured  upon  me. 

They  had  come  without — 

One  with  her  work,  the  other  with  her  book — 
To  taste  the  freshness  of  the  evening  air, 
Washed  of  the  hot  day's  dust  by  rain  ;  to  hear 
The  robin's  hymn  of  joy  ;  and  watch  the  clouds 
That  canopied  with  gold  the  sinking  sun. 
The  maiden  in  a  pale-blue,  muslin  robe — 
Dyed  with  forget-me-nots,  I  fancied  then, 
And  sweet  with  life  in  every  fold,  I  knew — 
A  blush-rose  at  her  throat,  and  in  her  hair 
A  sprig  of  green  and  white,  was  lovelier 


KATHRINA.  193 

Than  sky  or  landscape  ;  and  her  low  words  fell 
More  musically  than  the  robin's  hymn. 
So,  with  my  back  to  other  scene  and  sound, 
I  faced  the  faces,  took  the  proffered  chair 
And  looked  and  listened. 

"  Tell  us  of  yourself," 

Spoke  the  blunt  aunt,  with  license  of  her  years. 
"  What  are  you  doing  now?" 

"  Nothing,"  I  said. 

"  And  were  you  not  the  boy  who  was  to  grow 
Into  a  great,  good  man,  and  write  fine  books, 
And  have  no  end  of  fame  ?  " 

The  question  cut 

Deeper  than  she  intended.     The  hot  blush 
And  stammering  answer  told  her  of  the  hurt, 
And  tenderly  she  tried  to  heal  the  wound  : 
"  I  know  that  you  have  suffered  ;  but  your  hours 
Must  not  be  told  by  tears.     The  life  that  goes 
In  unavailing  sorrow  goes  to  waste." 

"True,"  I  replied,  "but  work  may  not  be  done 
Without  a  motive.     Never  worthy  man 
Worked  worthily  who  was  not  moved  by  love. 
When  she  I  loved,  and  she  who  loved  me  died, 
My  motive  died  ;  and  it  can  never  rise 
Till  trump  of  love  shall  call  it  from  the  dust 
To  resurrection." 

I  spoke  earnestly, 

Without  a  thought  that  other  ears  than  hers 
Were  listening  to  my  words  ;  but  when  I  looked, 
9 


194  KATHRINA. 

I  saw  the  maiden's  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 
I  knew  her  own  experience  was  touched, 
And  that  her  heart  made  answer  to  my  own 
In  perfect  sympathy. 

To  change  the  drift, 

I  took  her  book,  and  read  the  title-page  : 
"  So  you  like  poetry,"  I  said. 

"  So  well  my  aunt 
Finds  fault  with  me." 

"You  write,  perhaps?" 

"  Not  I." 

"A  happy  woman!"  I  exclaimed;  "in  truth, 

The  first  I  ever  found  affecting  art 

Who  shunned  expression  by  it.     If  a  girl 

Like  painting,  she  must  paint ;  if  poetry, 

She  must  write  verses.     Can  you  tell  me  why 

(For  sex  marks  no  distinction  in  this  thing), 

Men  with  a  taste  for  art  in  finest  forms 

Cherish  the  fancy  that  they  may  become, 

Or  are,  Art's  masters  ?     You  shall  see  a  man 

Who  never  drew  a  line  or  struck  an  arc 

Direct  an  architect,  and  spoil  his  work, 

Because,  forsooth !  he  likes  a  tasteful  house ! 

He  likes  a  muffin,  but  he  does  not  go 

Into  his  kitchen  to  instruct  his  cook, — 

Nay,  that  were  insult.     He  admires  fine  clothes, 

But  trusts  his  tailor.     Only  in  those  arts 

Which  issue  from  creative  potencies 

Does  his  conceit  engage  him.     He  could  learn 

The  baker's  trade,  and  learn  to  cut  a  coat, 


KATHRINA.  195 

But  never  learn  to  do  that  one  great  deed 
Which  he  essays." 

"  'Tis  not  a  strange  mistake — 
These  people  make  " — she  answered,  thoughtfully. 
"  Art  gives  them  pleasure  ;  and  they  honor  those 
Whose  heads  and  hands  produce  it.     If  they  see 
The  length  and  breadth  and  beauty  of  a  thought 
Embodied  by  another, — if  they  hold 
The  taste,  the  culture,  the  capacity, 
To  measure  values  in  the  things  of  art, 
Why  cannot  they  create  ?     Why  cannot  they 
Win  to  themselves  the  honor  they  bestow 
On  those  who  feed  them  ?     Is  it  very  strange 
That  those  who  know  how  sweet  the  gratitude 
Which  the  true  artist  stirs,  should  burn  to  taste 
That  gratitude  themselves  ?  " 


"  Not  strange,  perhaps," 
I  said,  "  and  yet,  it  is  a  sad  mistake  ; 
For  countless  noble  lives  have  gone  to  waste 
In  work  which  it  inspired." 


Here  spoke  the  aunt : 

"  You  are  a  precious  pair  ;  and  if  you  know 
What  you  are  talking  of,  you  know  a  deal 
More  than  your  elders.     By  your  royal  leave, 
I  will  retire  ;  for  I  can  lay  the  cloth 
For  kings  and  queens  though  I  may  fail  to  know 
Their  lore  and  language.     You  can  eat,  I  think  ; 
And  hear  a  tea-bell,  though  you  hear  not  me." 
Thus  speaking,  in  her  crisp,  good-natured  way, 
The  lady  left  us. 


196  KATHRINA. 

When  she  passed  the  door, 
And  laughter  at  her  jest  had  had  its  way, 
I  said  :  "  It  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  world." 

"  How  many,  think  you  ?     Only  one,  two,  three/' 

The  maiden  said.     "  Here  we  have  all  the  world 

In  this  one  cottage — artist,  teacher,  taught, 

In — not  to  mar  the  order  of  the  scale 

For  courtesy — yourself,  myself,  my  aunt. 

You  are  an  artist,  so  my  aunt  reports  ; 

But,  as  an  artist,  you  are  nought  to  her. 

And  now,  to  broach  a  petted  theory, 

Let  me  presume  too  boldly,  while  I  say 

She  cannot  understand  you,  though  I  can  ; 

You  cannot  measure  her,  though  she  is  wise. 

You  have  not  much  for  her,  and  that  you  have 

You  cannot  teach  her  ;  but  I,  knowing  her, 

Can  pick  from  your  creations  crumbs  of  thought 

She  will  find  manna.     In  the  hands  of  Christ 

The  five  loaves  grew,  the  fishes  multiplied ; 

And  he  to  his  disciples  gave  the  feast — 

They  to  the  multitude.    >  Artists  are  few, 

Teachers  are  thousands,  and  the  world  is  large. 

Artists  are  nearest  God.     Into  their  souls 

He  breathes  his  life,  and  from  their  hands  it  comes 

In  fair,  articulate  forms  to  bless  the  world  ; 

And  yet,  these  forms  may  never  bless  the  world 

Except  its  teachers  take  them  in  their  hands, 

And  give  each  man  his  portion." 

As  she  spoke 

In  earnest  eloquence,  I  could  have  knelt, 
And  worshiped  her.     Her  delicate  cheek  was  flushed, 
Her  eyes  were  filled  with  light,  and  her  closed  book 
Was  pressed  against  her  heart,  whose  throbbing  tide 


KATHRINA.  197 

Thridded  her  temples.     I  was  half  amused, 

Half  rapt  in  admiration  ;  and  she  saw 

That  in  my  eyes  at  which  she  blushed  and  paused. 

"  Your  pardon,  Sir,"  she  said.     "  It  ill  becomes 

A  teacher  to  instruct  an  artist." 

"  Nay, 

It  does  become  you  wondrously,"  I  said 
With  light  but  earnest  words.     "  Pray  you  go  on  ; 
And  pardon  all  that  my  unconscious  eyes 
Have  done  to  stop  you." 

"  I  have  little  more 

That  I  would  care  to  say  :  you  have  my  thought,"- 
She  answered;   "yet  there's  very  much  to  say, 
And  you  should  say  it." 

"  Not  I,  lady,  no: 
A  poet  is  not  practical  like  you, 
Nor  sensible  like  you.     You  can  teach  him 
As  well  as  tamer  folk.     In  truth,  I  think 
He  needs  instruction  quite  as  much  as  they 
For  whom  he  writes." 

• 

"  That's  possible,"  she  said, 
With  an  arch  smile. 

"Will  you  explain  yourself?" 

"  Well — if  you  wish  it — yes  :  "   she  made  reply. 
"And  first,  my  auditor  must  know  that  I 
Believe  in  inspiration,  though  he  knows 
So  much  as  that  already,  from  my  words, — 
Believe  that  God  inspires  the  poet's  soul, — 
That  he  gives  eyes  to  see,  and  ears  to  hear 


198  KATHRINA. 

What  in  his  realm  holds  finest  ministry 

For  highest  aptitudes  and  needs  of  men, 

And  skill  to  mould  it  into  forms  of  art 

Which  shall  present  it  to  the  world  he  serves. 

Sometimes  the  poet  writes  with  fire  ;    with  blood 

Sometimes  ;    sometimes  with  blackest  ink  : 

It  matters  not.     God  finds  his  mighty  way 

Into  his  verse.     The  dimmest  window-panes 

Let  in  the  morning  light,  and  in  that  light 

Our  faces  shine  with  kindled  sense  of  God 

And  his  unwearied  goodness  ;    but  the  glass 

Gets  little  good  of  it ;    nay,  it  retains 

Its  chill  and  grime  beyond  the  power  of  light 

To  warm  or  whiten.     E'en  the  prophet's  ass 

Had  better  eyes  than  he  who  strode  his  back, 

And,  though  the  prophet  bore  the  word  of  God, 

Did  finer  reverence.     The  Psalmist's  soul 

Was  not  a  fitting  place  for  psalms  like  his 

To  dwell  in  over-long,  while  waiting  words, 

If  I  read  rightly.     As  for  the  old  seers, 

Whose  eyes  God  touched  with  vision  of  the  life 

Of  the  unfolding  ages,  I  must  doubt 

Whether  they  comprehended  what  they  saw, 

Or  knew  what  th'ey  recorded.     It  remains 

For  the  world's  teachers  to  expound  their  words  ; 

To  probe  their  mysteries  ;    and  relegate 

The  truth  they  hold  in  blind  significance 

Into  the  fair  domains  of  history 

And  human  knowledge.     Am  I  understood?" 

"  You  are,"  I  answered  ;    "  and  I  cannot  say 

You  flatter  me.     God  takes  within  his  hand 

A  thing  of  his  contrivance  which  we  call 

A  poet  :    then  he  puts  it  to  his  lips, 

And  speaks  his  word,  and  puts  it  down  again — 


KATHRINA.  199 

The  instrument  not  better  and  not  worse 
For  being  handled  ; — not  improved  a  whit 
In  quality,  by  quality  of  that 
Which  it  conveys.     Do  1  report  aright  ? 
Or  do  you  prompt  me  ? " 

"You  are  very  apt," 

She  said,  "at  learning,  but  a  little  bald 
In  statement.     Nathless,  be  it  as  you  say  ; 
And  we  shall  see  how  it  is  possible 
That  poets  need  instruction  quite  as  much 
As  those  for  whom  they  write.     What  sad,  bad  men 
The  brightest  geniuses  have  been  !     How  weak, 
How  mean  in  character  !    how  foul  in  life ! 
How  feebly  have  the  best  of  them  retained 
The  wealth  of  good  and  beauty  which  has  flowed 
In  crystal  streams  from  God,  the  fountain  head, 
Through  them  to  fertilize  the  world  !     Nay,  worse, 
How  many  of  them  have  infused  the  tide 
With  tincture  of  their  own  impurity, 
To  poison  sweetest,  unsuspecting  lips, 
And  breed  diseases  in  the  finest  blood  ! 
And  poets  not  alone,  and  not  the  worst  ; 
But  painters,  sculptors — those  whose  kingly  power 
And  aptitude  for  utterance  divine 

Have  made  them  artists  : — how  have  these  contemned 
In  countless  instances  the  God  of  Heaven 
Who  filled  them  with  his  fire  !     Think  you  that  these 
Could  compass  their  achievements  of  themselves  ? 
Can  streams  surpass  their  fountains  ?  " 

"Nay,"  I  said, 

In  quick  response,  "Your  argument  is  good; 
But  is  the  artist  nothing?     Is  he  nought 
But  an  apt  tool — a  mouth-piece  for  a  voice  ? 


200  KATHRINA. 

You  make  him  but  the  spigot  of  a  cask 
Round  which  you,  teachers,  wait  with  silver  cups 
To  bear  away  the  wine  that  leaves  it  dry. 
You  magnify  your  office." 

"We  do  all 

Wait  upon  God  for  every  grace  and  good," 
She  then  rejoined.     "  You  take  it  at  first  hand, 
And  we  from  yours  :    the  multitude  from  ours. 
It  may  leach  through  our  souls,  if  our  poor  wills 
Retain  it  not,  and  drench  the  fragrant  sand. 
And  if  I  magnify  my  office — well ! 
'Tis  a  great  office.     What  would  come  of  all 
The  music  of  the  masters,  did  not  we 
Wait  at  their  doors,  to  publish  to  the  world 
What  God  has  told  them  ?     They  would  be  as  mute 
As  the  dumb  Sphynx.     They  write  a  symphony, 
An  opera,  an  oratorio, 
In  language  that  the  teacher  understands, 
,  And  straight  the  whole  world  echoes  to  its  strains. 
It  shrills  and  thunders  through  cathedral  glooms 
From  golden  organ-tubes  and  voiceful  choirs ; 
The  halls  of  art  of  both  the  hemispheres 
Resound  with  its  divinest  melodies  ; 
The  street  stirs  with  the  impulse,  and  we  hear 
The  blare  of  martial  trumpets,  and  the  tramp 
Of  bannered  armies  swaying  to  its  rhythm  ; 
The  hurdy-gurdies  and  the  whistling  boys 
Adopt  the  lighter  strains  ;  and  round  and  round 
A  million  souls  its  hovering  fancies  float, 
Like  butterflies  above  a  fair  parterre, 
Till,  settling  one  by  one,  they  sleep  at  last ; 
And  lo !    two  petals  more  on  every  flower ! 
And  this  not  all ;    for  though  the  master  die, 
The  teacher  lives  forever.     On  and  on, 


KATHRINA.  2OI 

Through  all  the  generations,  he  shall  preach 

The  beautiful  evangel ; — on  and  on, 

Till  our  poor  race  has  passed  the  tortuous  years 

That  lie  prevening  the  millennium, 

And  slid  into  that  broad  and  open  sea, 

He  shall  sail  singing  still  the  songs  he  learned 

In  the  world's  youth,  and  sing  them  o'er  and  o'er 

To  lapping  waters,  till  the  thousand  leagues 

Are  overpast,  and  argosy  and  crew 

Ride  at  their  port." 

"True  as  to  facts,"  I  said; 
"And  as  to  prophecies,  most  credible; 
But,  as  an  illustration,  false,  I  think. 
That  which  the  voice  and  instrument  may  do 
For  the  composer,  types  may  do  for  those 
Who  mint  their  thoughts  in  verse.     Music  is  writ 
In  language  that  the  people  do  not  read — 
Is  lame  in  that — and  needs  interpreters  ; 
While  poetry,  e'en  in  its  noblest  forms 
And  boldest  flights,  speaks  their  vernacular. 
Your  aunt  can  read  the  book  within  your  hand 
As  well  as  you,  if  she  desire,  yet  finds 
Your  score  all  Greek,  until  you  vocalize 
Its  wealth  of  hidden  meaning.     As  for  arts 
Which  meet  the  eye  in  picture  and  in  form, 
They  ask  no  mediator  but  the  light — 
No  grace  but  privilege  to  shine  with  naught 
Between  them  and  the  light.     They  are  themselves 
Expositors  of  that  which  they  expose, 
Or  they  are  nothing.     All  the  middle-men  — 
The  fools  profound — who  take  it  on  their  tongues 
To  play  the  showmen,  strutting  up  and  down, 
And  mouthing  of  the  beauty  that  they  hide, 
Are  an  impertinence." 
9* 


2O2  KATIIRINA. 

"  You  leave  no  room 
For  critics,"  she  suggested,  with  a  smile. 
"  We  must  not  spoil  a  trade,  or  starve  the  wives 
And  innocent  babes  it  feeds." 

"  No  care  for  them !  " 

I  made  reply.     "  They  do  not  need  much  room — 
Men  of  their  build — and  what  they  need  they  take. 
The  feeble  conies  burrow  in  the  rocks  ; 
But  the  trees  grow,  and  we  are  not  aware 
Of  space  encumbered  by  them." 

"  Yet  the  fact 

Still  stands  untouched,"  she  added,  thoughtfully, 
-"  That  greatest  artists  speak  to  fewest  souls, 
Or  speak  to  them  directly.     They  have  need 
Of  no  such  ministry  as  waits  the  beck 
Of  the  composer  ;  but  they  need  the  life, 
If  not  the  learning,  of  the  cultured  few 
Who  understand  them.     If  from  out  my  book 
I  gather  that  which  feeds  me,  and  inspires 
A  nobler,  sweeter  beauty  in  my  life, 
And  give  my  life  to  those  who  cannot  win 
From  the  dim  text  such  boon,  then  have  I  borne 
A  blessing  from  the  book,  and  been  its  best 
Interpreter.     The  bread  that  comes  from  heaven 
Needs  finest  breaking.     Some  there  doubtless  are — 
Some  ready  souls — that  take  the  morsel  pure 
Divided  to  their  need  ;     but  multitudes 
Must  have  it  in  admixtures,  menstruums, 
And  forms  that  human  hands  or  human  life 
Have  moulded.     Though  the  multitudes  may  find 
Something  to  stir  and  lift  their  sluggish  souls 
In  sight  of  great  cathedrals,  or  in  view 
Of  noble  pictures,  yet  they  see  not  all, 


KATHRINA.  2O3 

And  not  the  best.     That  which  they  do  not  see 
Must  enter  higher  souls,  and  there,  by  art 
Or  life,  be  fashioned  to  their  want." 


"  Your  thought 

Grows  subtle,"  I  responded,  "and  I  grant 
Its  force  and  beauty.     If  the  round  truth  lie 
Somewhere  between  us,  and  I  see  the  face 
It  turns  to  me  in  stronger  light  than  you 
Reveal  its  opposite,  why,  let  the  fault  be  mine  ; 
It  is  not  yours.     You  have  instructed  me, 
And  won  my  thanks." 


"Instructed  you?"  she  said, 

With  a  fine  blush  :  "  you  mock,  you  humble  me. 
And  have  I  talked  so  much,  with  such  an  air, 
That,  either  earnestly  or  in  a  jest, 
You  can  say  this  to  me  ?  " 


"  'Tis  not  a  sin, 

In  latitude  of  ours,"  I  made  reply, 
"  To  talk  philosophy  ;  'tis  only  rare 
For  beardless  lips  to  do  so.     I  have  caught 
From  yours  a  finer,  more  suggestive  scheme 
Than  all  the  wise  have  taught  me  by  their  books, 
Or  by  their  voices.     I  will  think  of  it." 


"  Now  may  you  be  forgiven!"  the  aunt  exclaimed, 
Approaching  unobserved.     "  There  never  lived 
A  quieter,  more  plainly  speaking  girl, 
Than  my  Kathrina.     All  these  weeks  and  months, 


204  KATHRINA. 

I  have  heard  nought  from  her  but  common  sense  ; 
But  when  you  came,  why,  off  she  went ;  though  where 
It's  more  than  I  know.     You,  sir,  have  the  blame  ; 
And  you  must  lift  your  spell,  and  give  her  back 
Just  as  you  found  her." 

"  She  has  practiced  well 

Her  scheme  on  us.     She  breaks  to  you  the  bread 
That  meets  your  want ;  to  me,  that  meets  my  own," 
I  said,  in  answering. 

"  Well,"  spoke  the  aunt, 

"  I  think  I'll  try  my  hand  at  breaking  bread  : 
So,  follow  me." 

We  followed  to  her  board, 
And  there,  in  converse  suited  to  the  hour 
And  presence  of  our  hostess,  proved  ourselves — 
Quite  to  that  lady's  liking — of  the  earth. 
We  ate  her  jumbles  for  her,  sipped  her  tea, 
And  reveled  in  the  spicy  succulence 
Of  her  preserves. 

While  still  I  sat  at  ease, 

The  maiden's  eye,  with  quick,  uneasy  glance, 
Sought  the  clock's  dial.     Then  she  turned  to  me, 
And  said  with  sweet,  respectful  courtesy  : 
"  Pray  you  excuse  my  presence  for  an  hour. 
A  duty  calls  me  out ;  and  that  performed, 
I  will  return." 

I  saw  she  marked  my  look 
Of  disappointment — that  it  staggered  her — 
The  while  with  words  of  stiffest  commonplace 
I  gave  assent.     But  she  was  on  her  feet ; 


KATHRINA.  2O5 

And  soon  I  heard  her  light  step  on  the  stair, 
Seeking  her  chamber. 

"  Whither  will  she  go 

At  such  an  hour  as  this,  from  you  and  me  ? " 
I  coldly  questioned  of  the  keen-eyed  aunt. 


"  You  men  are  very  curious,"  she  said. 

"  I  knew  you'd  ask  me.     Can't  a  lady  stir, 

But  you  must  call  her  to  account  ?     Who  knows 

She  may  not  have  some  rustic  lover  here 

With  whom  she  keeps  her  tryst  ?     'Tis  an  old  trick, 

Not  wholly  out  of  fashion  in  these  parts. 

What  matters  it  ?     She  orders  her  own  ways, 

And  has  discretion." 

With  lugubrious  voice 

I  said  :    "  You  trifle,  madam,  with  my  wish. 
I  know  the  lady  has  no  lover  here, 
And  so  do  you." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that !  " 

My  hostess  made  response  ;   and  then  she  laughed 
A  rippling,  rollicking  roulade,  and  shook 
Her  finger  at  me,  till  my  temples  burned 
With  the  hot  shame  she  summoned. 

"There!"    I  said; 

"  You've  done  your  worst,  and  learned  so  much,  at  least- 
That  I  admire  your  niece.     /  curious  ! 
Well,  you  are  curious  and  cunning  too. 
Now,  in  the  moment  of  your  victory, 
Be  generous ;   and  Jell  me  what  may  call 
The  lady  from  us." 


206  KATHRINA. 

"  It  is  Thursday  night," 
She  answered  soberly, — "  the  weekly  hour 
At  which  our  quiet  neighborhood  convenes 
For  social  worship.     You  may  guess  the  rest 
Without  my  telling  ;    but  you  cannot  know 
With  what  anticipated  joy  she  leaves 
Our  company,  or  with  what  shining  face 
She  will  return." 

At  that,  I  heard  her  dress 
Sliding  the  flight,  and  rising,  made  my  way 
To  meet  her  at  its  foot.     A  happy  smile 
Illumed  her  features,  as  she  gave  her  hand 
With  thought  of  parting.     I  had  rallied  all 
My  self-ccntrol  and  gallantry  meanwhile, 
And  said  :     "  Not  here.     I'll  with  you,  by  your  leave, 
So  far  as  you  may  walk." 


There  was  a  flash 

Of  gladness  in  her  eyes,  and  in  her  thanks 
A  subtler  charm  than  gratitude. 


I  bade 

My  hostess  a  "  good-night,"  and  left  her  door, 
Declining  her  entreaty  te  return. 
We  walked  in  silence,  side  by  side,  a  space, 
And  then,  with  feigned  indifference,  I  spoke  : 
"  Your  aunt  has  told  me  of  your  errand  ;    else, 
It  had  been  modest  in  me  to  withhold 
This  tendance  on  your  steps.     She  tells  me  you 
Are  quite  a  devotee.     Whom  do  you  meet, 
In  neighborhood  like  this,  to  give  a  zest 
To  hour  like  this  ?  " 


KATHRINA.  207 

"  Brothers  and  sisters  all," 
She  said  in  low  reply ;    "  and  as  for  zest, 
There's  never  lack  of  it  where  there  is  love. 
When  families  convene,  they  have  no  need 
Of  more  than  love  to  give  them  festal  joy  ; 
Nor  do  they  with  discrimination  judge 
Between  the  high  and  humble.     These  are  one ; 
Love  makes  them  one." 

"  And  you  are  one  with  these  ?  " 

"  Though  most  unworthy  of  such  fellowship, 
I  trust  that  I  am  one  with  these  ; — that  they 
Are  one  with  me,  and  reckon  me  among 
Their  number." 

"Can  they  do  you  any  good?" 

"  They  can,"  she  said,  "  but  were  it  otherwise, 
I  can  serve  them  ;    and  so  should  seek  them  still. 
I  help  them  in  their  songs." 

We  reached  too  soon 
The  open  doorway  of  the  humble  hut 
Which,  for  long  years,  had  held  the  village  school, 
And,  at  a  little  distance,  paused.     The  room, 
Battered  and  black  by  wantonest  abuse 
Of  the  rude  youth,  was  lit  by  feeble  lamps, 
Brought  by  the  villagers  ;    and  scattered  round 
Upon  the  high,  hacked  benches,  hardly  less 
Rude  and  rough-worn  than  they,  the  worshipers 
In  silence  sat.     It  was  no  place  for  words. 
I  took  the  lady's  hand,  and  said  "  good-night ! " 
In  whisper.     Then  she  turned,  and  disappeared 
Within  the  sheltered  gloom  ;    but  I  could  see 


208  KATHRINA. 

The  care-worn  cheeks  light  up  with  pleasant  fire 
As  she  passed  in  ;    and  e'en  the  fainting  lamps 
Flared  with  new  life,  the  while  they  caught  the  breath 
Of  her  sweet  robe.     Then  with  an  angry  heart 
I  turned  away,  and,  wrapped  in  selfish  thought, 
Took  up  the  walk  toward  home. 


This  homely  group 

Of  Yankee  lollards  she  preferred  to  me  ! 
These  poor,  pinched  boobies,  with  their  silly  wives — 
Ah  !   these  were  they  who  gave  her  overmuch 
In  the  bestowal  of  their  fellowship ! 
These  crowned  her  with  a  peerless  privilege, 
Permitting  her  to  sit  with  them  an  hour 
As  a  dear  sister  !     How  my  sore  self-love 
Burned  with  the  hot  affront ! 


With  lips  compressed, 
Or  blurting  forth  their  anger  and  disgust, 
I  strode  the  meadows,  stalked  the  silent  town, 
And  growled  and  groaned  in  sullen  helplessness 
About  the  streets,  until  the  midnight  bell 
Tolled  from  'the  old  church  tower  ; — in  helplessness, 
For,  mattered  nothing  what  or  who  she  was 
(I  had  not  dared  or  cared  to  question  that), 
Or  how  offensive  in  her  piety 
And  her  devotion  to  the  tasteless  cult 
Of  the  weak  throng,  I  was  her  slave  ;    and  she — 
Her  own  and  God's.     The  miserable  strife 
Between  my  love  of  self  and  love  of  her 
I  knew  was  bootless  ;    and  the  trenchant  truth 
Cut  to  the  quick.     She  held  within  her  hand 
My  heart,  my  life,  my  doom,  yet  knew  it  not  ; 


KATHRINA.  2OQ 

And  had  she  known,  her  soul  was  under  vows 
Which  would  forever  make  subordinate 
Their  recognized  possession. 

But  the  morn 

Brought  with  it  better  mood  and  calmer  thoughts. 
I  had  the  grace  to  gauge  the  heartlessness 
Of  my  exactions,  and  the  power  to  crush 
The  tyrant  wish  to  tear  her  from  the  throne 
To  which  she  clung.     I  said  :    "So  she  love  me 
As  a  true  woman  loves,  and  give  herself — 
Her  sweet,  pure  self — to  me,  and  fill  my  home 
With  her  dear  presence,  loyal  still  to  me 
In  wifely  love  and  wifely  offices, 
Though  she  abide  in  Christian  loyalty 
By  Christian  vows,  she  shall  have  liberty, 
And  hold  it  as  her  right." 

She  was  my  peer  : 

No  weakling  girl,  who  would  surrender  will 
And  life  and  reason,  with  her  loving  heart, 
To  her  possessor  ; — no  soft,  clinging  thing 
Who  would  find  breath  alone  within  the  arms 
Of  a  strong  master,  and  obediently 
Wait  on  his  whims  in  slavish  carefulness  ; — 
No  fawning,  cringing  spaniel,  to  attend 
His  royal  pleasure,  and  account  herself 
Rewarded  by  his  pats  and  pretty  words, 
But  a  round  woman,  who,  with  insight  keen, 
Had  wrought  a  scheme  of  life,  and  measured  well 
Her  womanhood  ;    had  spread  before  her  feet 
A  fine  philosophy  to  guide  her  steps  ; 
Had  won  a  faith  to  which  her  life  was  brought 
In  strict  adjustment — brain  and  heart  meanwhile 
Working  in  conscious  harmony  and  rhythm 


2IO  KATHRINA. 

With  the  great  scheme  of  God's  great  universe, 
On  toward  her  being's  end. 

I  could  but  know 

Her  motives  were  superior  to  mine. 
I  could  but  feel  that  in  her  loyalty 
To  God  and  duty,  she  condemned  my  life. 
Into  her  woman's  heart,  thrown  open  wide 
In  holy  charity,  she  had  drawn  all 
Of  human  kind,  and  found  no  humblest  soul 
Too  humble  for  her  entertainment, — none 
So  weak  it  could  return  no  grateful  boon 
For  what  she  gave ;    and  standing  modestly 
Within  her  scheme,  with  meekest  reverence 
She  bowed  to  those  above  her,  yet  with  strong 
And  hearty  confidence  assumed  a  place 
In  service  of  the  world,  as  minister 
Ordained  of  heaven  to  break  to  it  the  bread 
She  took  from  other  hands.     And  she  was  one 
Who  could  see  all  there  was  of  good  in  me, — 
Could  measure  well  the  product  of  my  power, 
And  give  it  impulse  and  direction  :    nay, 
Could  supplement  my  power  ;    and  help  my  heart 
Against  its  foes. 

The  moment  that  I  thrust 
The  selfish  thirsting  for  monopoly 
Of  her  affections  from  my  godless  heart, 
She  entered  in,  and  reigned  a  goddess  there. 
If  she  had  fascinated  me  before, 
And  fired  my  heart  with  passion,  now  she  bent 
My  spirit  to  profound  respect.     I  bowed 
To  the  fair  graces  of  her  character, 
Her  queenly  gifts,  and  the  beneficence 
Of  her  devoted  life,  with  humbled  heart 


KATHRINA.  211 

And  self-depreciation.     All  of  God 

That  the  world  held  for  me,  I  found  in  her  ; 

And  in  her,  all  the  God  I  sought.     She  was 

My  saviour  from  myself  and  from  my  sins  ; 

For,  with  my  worship  of  the  excellence 

Which  she  embodied,  came  the  purity 

And  peace  to  which,  through  all  my  troubled  life, 

I  had  been  stranger.     Thoughts  and  feelings  all 

Were  sublimated  by  the  subtle  flame 

Which  warmed  and  wrapped  me  ;    and  I  walked  as  one 

Might  walk  on  air,  with  things  of  earth  beneath, 

Breathing  a  rare,  supernal  atmosphere 

Which  every  sense  and  faculty  informed 

With  light  and  life  divine. 

What  need  to  tell 

Of  the  succeeding  summer  days,  and  all 
Their  deeds  and  incidents  ?     They  floated  by 
Like  silent  sails  upon  a  summer  sea, 
That,  sweeping  in  from  farthest  heaven  at  morn, 
Traverse  the  vision,  and  at  evening  slide 
Out  into  heaven  again,  their  pennant-flames 
The  rosy  dawns  and  day-falls.     O'er  and  o'er, 
I  walked  the  path,  and  crossed  the  stream,  that  lay 
Between  me  and  the  idol  of  my  heart  ; 
And  every  day,  in  every  circumstance, 
I  found  her  still  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  ; 
For,  every  day,  some  unsuspected  grace, 
Or  some  fresh  revelation  of  her  wealth 
Of  character  and  culture,  touched  my  heart 
To  new  surprise,  and  overflowed  the  cup 
Whose  wine  was  life  to  me. 

Though  I  could  see 
That  I  was  not  unwelcome  ;    though  I  knew 


212  KATHRINA. 

I  gave  a  zest  to  her  sequestered  life, 
I  had  built  up  so  high  my  only  hope 
On  her  affection — I  had  given  myself 
So  wholly  to  the  venture  for  her  hand, 
I  did  not  dare  to  speak  of  love,  or  ask 
The  question  which,  unasked,  held  hopefully 
My  destiny  :    which  answered,  might  bring  doom 
Of  madness  or  of  death. 

Meanwhile,  I  learned 
The  lady's  history  from  other  lips 
Than  her's — her  aunt's.     Alas  !    the  old,  old  tale ! 
She  had  been  bred  to  luxury  ;    and  all 
That  wealth  could  purchase  for  her,  or  the  friends 
Swarmed  by  its  golden  glamour  could  bestow, 
She  had  possessed.     But  he  who  won  the  wealth, 
Reaching  for  more,  slipped  from  his  height  and  fell, 
Dragging  his  house  to  ruin.     Then  he  died — 
Died  in  disgrace  ;    and  all  his  thousand  friends 
Fell  off,  and  left  his  pampered  family, 
The  while  the  noisy  auctioneer  knocked  down 
His  house  and  household  gods,  and  set  adrift 
The  helpless  life  thus  cruelly  bereft. 
The  mother  lived  a  month  :    the  rest  went  forth, 
Not  knowing  whither ;    but  they  found  among 
The  poor  a  shelter  for  their  poverty, — 
Kathrina  with  her  aunt.     Thus,  in  few  words, 
A  tragedy  of  heart-breaks  and  of  death, 
Such  as  the  world  abounds  with. 

But  this  girl, 

With  her  quick  instincts  and  her  brave,  good  heart, 
Determined  she  would  live  awhile,  and  learn 
What  lesson  God  would  teach  her.     This  she  sought, 
And,  seeking,  found,  or  thought  she  found.     How  well 


KATHRINA.  213 

She  learned  the  lesson — what  the  lesson  was — 
Her  life,  thus  far  revealed,  and  waiting  still 
My  feeble  record,  shall  disclose.     Enough, 
Just  now  and  here,  that  out  of  it  she  bore 
A  noble  womanhood,  accepting  all 
Her  great  misfortunes  as  the  discipline 
Of  a  paternal  hand,  in  love  prescribed 
To  lead  her  to  her  place,  and  whiten  her 
For  Christian  service. 

All  the  summer  fled  ; 

And  still  my  heart  delayed.     One  pleasant  eve, 
When  first  the  creaking  of  the  crickets  told 
Of  Autumn's  opening  door,  I  went  with  her 
To  ramble  in  the  fields.     We  touched  the  hem 
Of  the  dark  mountain's  robe,  that  falls  in  folds 
Of  emerald  sward  around  his  feet,  and  there 
Upon  its  tufted  velvet  we  sat  down. 
It  was  my  time  to  speak,  but  I  was  dumb  ; 
And  silence,  painful  and  portentous,  hung 
Upon  us  both.     At  length,  she  turned  and  said  : 
"  Some  days  have  passed  since  you  were  latest  here. 
Have  you  been  ill  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  been  at  work," 
I  answered, — "  at  my  own  delightful  work  ; 
The  first  since  first  we  met.     The  record  lies 
Where  I  may  reach  it  at  a  word  from  you. 
Command,  and  I  will  read  it." 

"  I  command," 

She  said,  responding  with  a  laugh.     "  Nay,  I 
Entreat.     I  used  your  word,  but  this  is  mine, 
And  has  a  better  sound  from  lips  of  mine. 
I  am  your  waiting  auditor." 


214  KATHRINA. 

I  read  : 

"  Was  it  the  tale  of  a  talking  bird  ? 
Was  it  a  dream  of  the  night  ? 
When  have  I  seen  it  ?     Where  have  I  heard 
Of  the  haps  of  a  dainty  craft,  that  stirred " 
My  spirit  with  affright  ? 


The  shallop  stands  out  from  the  sheltered  bay 
With  a  burden  of  spirits  twain, — 

A  woman  who  lifts  her  eyes  to  pray, 

A  tall  youth,  trolling  a  roundelay, 

And  before  them  night,  and  the  main  ! 


"  O  !    Star  of  The  Sea  !     They  will  come  to  harm  : 

Nor  master  nor  sailor  is  there ! 
The  youth  clasps  the  mast  with  his  sinewy  arm, 
And  laughs  !     Does  he  hold  in  his  bosom  a  charm 

That  will  baffle  the  sprites  of  the  air  ? 


"  O  !   woe  to  the  delicate  ship  !     O  !   woe  ! 

For  the  sun  is  sunk,  and  behold ! 
The  trooping  phantoms  that  come  and  go 
In  the  sky  above  and  the  waves  below ! 

Ho  !     The  wind  blows  wild  and  cold. 


The  woman  is  weeping  in  weak  despair  ; 

The  youth  still  clings  to  the  mast, 
With  cheeks  aflame,  and  with  eyes  that  stare 
At  the  phantoms  hovering  everywhere  ; 

And  the  storm-rack  rises  fast ! 


KATHRINA.  21$ 

"  The  phantoms  close  on  the  flying  bark  ; 

They  flutter  about  her  peak  ; 
They  sweep  in  swarms  from  the  outer  dark  ; 
But  the  youth  at  the  mast  stands  still  and  stark, 

While  they  flap  his  stinging  cheek. 

"  They  shiver  the  bolts  that  the  lightning  flings; 

They  bellow  and  roar  and  hiss  ; 
They  splash  the  deck  with  their  slimy  wings — 
Monstrous,  horrible,  ghastly  things  — 

That  climb  from  the  foul  abyss. 

"  No  star  shines  out  at  the  woman's  prayer; 

O  !  madly  distraught  is  she  ! 
And  the  bark  drives  on  with  her  wild  despair, 
With  shrieking  fiends  in  the  crowded  air, 

And  fiends  on  the  swarming  sea. 

"  Then  out  of  the  water  before  their  sight 

A  shape  loomed  bare  and  black  ! 
So  black  that  the  darkness  bloomed  with  white  ; 
So  black  that  the  lightning  grew  strangely  bright ; 
And  it  lay  in  the  shallop's  track ! 

"  O!    fierce  was  the  shout  of  the  goblins  then! 

How  the  gibber  and  laugh  went  round ! 
The  shout  and  the  laugh  of  a  thousand  men, 
Echoed  and  answered,  and  echoed  again, 

Would  have  been  a  feebler  sound. 

"  Straight  toward  the  blackness  drove  the  ship  ; 

But  the  youth  still  clung  to  the  mast : 
'  I  have  read,'  quoth  he,  with  a  proud,  cold  lip, 
'  That  the  devil  gets  never  a  man  on  the  hip 

Whom  he  scares  not,  first  or  last.' 


2l6  KATHRINA. 

"  Nearer  the  blackness  loomed  ;  and  the  bark 

Scudded  before  the  breeze  ; 
Nearer  the  blackness  loomed,  and  hark ! 
The  crash  of  breakers  out  of  the  dark, 
And  the  shock  of  plunging  sqas  ! 

"  O!   woe!   for  the  woman's  wits  ran  daft 

With  the  fearful  bruit  and  burst  ; 
She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  flitting  aft, 
She  plunged  in  the  sea,  and  the  black  waves  quaffed 

The  sweet  life  they  had  cursed. 

"  Light  leaped  the  bark  on  the  mountain-breast 

Of  a  tenth-wave  out  to  land  ; 
While  the  sprites  of  the  sea  fell  off  to  rest, 
And  the  youth,  unharmed,  became  the  guest 
Of  the  elves  of  the  silent  land. 

"  With  banter  and  buffet  they  pressed  around; 

They  tied  his  strong  hands  fast  ; 
But  he  laughed,  and  said,  '  I  have  read  and  found 
That  the  devil  throws  never  a  man  to  the  ground 

Whom  he  scares  not,  first  or  last.' 

"  Under  the  charred  and  ghastly  gloom, 

Over  the  flinty  stones, 
They  led  him  forth  to  his  terrible  doom, 
And,  plunged  in  a  deep  and  noisome  tomb, 

They  sat  him  among  the  bones. 

"  They  left  him  there  in  the  crawling  mire  : 

They  could  neither  maim  nor  kill  : 
For  fiends  of  water,  and  earth,  and  fire, 
Are  baffled  and  beaten  by  the  ire 

Of  a  dauntless  human  will. 


KATIIRINA.  217 

"  Days  flushed  and  faded,  months  passed  away, 

He  knew  by  the  golden  light 
That  shot,  through  a  loop  in  the  wall,  the  ray 
Which  parted  the  short  and  slender  day 

From  the  long  and  doleful  night. 

"  Was  it  a  vision  that  cheated  his  eyes  ? 

Was  he  awake,  or  no  ? 

He  stared  through  the  loop  with  keen  surprise, 
For  he  saw  a  sweet  angel  from  the  skies, 
With  white  wings,  folded  low. 

"  Could  she  not  loose  him  from  his  thrall, 

And  lead  him  into  the  light  ? 
'  Ah  me!'  he  murmured,  'I  dare  not  call, 
Lest  she  may  doubt  it  a  goblin's  waul, 

And  leave  me  in  swift  affright ! ' 

"  She  plumed  her  wings  with  a  noiseless  haste  ; 

He  could  neither  call  nor  cry  : 
She  vanished  into  the  sunny  waste, 
Into  far  blue  air  that  he  longed  to  taste  ; 

And  he  cursed  that  he  could  not  die. 

"  But  she  came  again,  and  every  day 

He  worshiped  her  where  she  shone ; 
And  again  she  left  him  and  floated  away, 
But  his  faithless  tongue  refused  to  pray 

For  the  boon  she  could  give  alone. 

"  And  there  he  sits  in  his  dumb  despair, 

And  his  watching  eyes  grow  dim  : 
Would  God  that  his  coward  lips  might  dare 
To  utter  the  word  to  the  angel  fair, 
That  is  life  or  death  to  him ! " 
10 


2l8  KATHRINA. 

I  marked  her  as  I  read,  a  furtive  glance 
Filling  each  pause.     The  passion  of  the  piece, 
Flaming  and  fading,  ever  and  anon, 
Mirrored  itself  within  her  tender  eyes, 
Themselves  the  mirror  of  her  tender  soul, 
And  fixed  attent  upon  my  face  the  while. 

She  had  not  caught  my  meaning,  but  had  heard 
Only  a  weird,  wild  story.     When  I  paused, 
Folding  the  manuscript,  I  saw  a  shade 
Of  disappointment  sweep  her  face,  and  marked 
A  question  rising  in  her  eyes.     She  knew 
That  I  was  waiting  for  her  words,  and  turned 
Her  look  away,  and  for  long  moments  gazed 
Into  the  brooding  dusk. 

"Speak  it!"    I  said. 

"  'Twas  very  strange  and  sad,"  she  answered  me. 
"  Why  do  you  write  such  things? — or,  writing  such, 
Leave  them  so  incomplete  ?     The  prisoned  youth, 
Thus  unreleased,  will  haunt  me  while  I  live. 
I  shudder  while  I  think  of  him." 

Then  I  : 

"  The  poem  will  be  finished,  by-and-by, 
For  this  is  history,  and  antedates 
No  fact  that  it  records.     Whether  this  youth 
Shall  live  entombed,  or  reach  the  blessed  air, 
Depends  upon  his  angel  ;    for  he  calls — 
I  hear  him  call,  and  call  again  her  name 
Kathrina!     O!    Kathrina  !  " 

Like  the  flash 
Of  the  hot  lightning,  the  significance 


KATIIRINA.  219 

Of  the  strange  vision  gleamed  upon  her  face 
In  a  bright,  throbbing  flame,  that  fell  full  soon 
To  ashen  paleness.     By  unconscious  will 
We  both  arose.     She  vainly  tried  to  speak, 
And  gazed  into  my  eyes  with  such  a  look 
Of  tender  questioning,  of  half-reproach, 
Of  struggling,  doubting,  hesitating  joy, 
As  few  men  ever  see,  and  none  but  once. 

Are  there  not  lofty  moments,  when  the  soul 

Leaps  to  the  front  of  being,  casting  off 

The  robes  and  clumsy  instruments  of  sense, 

And,  postured  in  its  immortality, 

Reveals  its  independence  of  the  clod 

In  which  it  dwells  ? — moments  in  which  the  earth 

And  all  material  things,  all  sights  and  sounds, 

All  signals,  ministries,  interpreters, 

Relapse  to  nothing,  and  the  interflow 

Of  thought  and  feeling,  love  and  life  go  on 

Between  two  spirits,  raised  to  sympathy 

By  an  inspiring  passion,  as,  in  heaven, 

The  body  dust,  within  an  orb  outlived, 

It  shall  go  on  forever? 

Moments  like  these — 

Nay,  these  in  very  truth — were  given  us  then. 
Who  shall  expound — ah  !  who  but  God  alone, 
The  everlasting  mystery  of  love  ? 
She  spoke  not,  but  I  knew  that  she  was  mine. 
I  breathed  no  word,  but  she  was  well  assured 
That  I  was  wholly  hcr's. 

In  what  disguise 

Our  love  had  hid,  and  wrought  its  miracle  ; 
Behind  what  semblance  of  indifference, 


220  KATIIRINA. 

Or  play  of  courtesy,  it  spun  the  cords 

That  bound  our  hearts  in  one,  was  mystery 

Like  love  itself.     The  swift  intelligence 

Of  interchange  of  perfect  faith  and  troth, 

Of  gift  of  life  and  person,  of  the  thrill 

Of  triumph  in  my  soul  and  gratitude 

In  hers,  without  a  gesture,  or  a  word, 

Was  like  the  converse  of  the  continents — 

Tracking  with  voiceless  flight  the  slender  wire 

That  underlay  the  throbbing  mystery 

Between  our  souls,  and  made  our  heart-beats  one. 

I  opened  wide  my  arms,  and  she,  my  own, 

Sobbed  on  my  breast  with  such  excess  of  joy, 

In  such  embrace  of  passionate  tenderness, 

As  heaven  may  yield  again,  but  never  earth. 

Slow  in  the  golden  twilight,  toward  her  home, 
Her  hand  upon  my  arm,  we  loitered  on, 
Silent  at  first,  and  then  with  quiet  speech 
Broaching  our  plans,  or  tracing  in  review 
The  history  of  our  springing  love,  when  she, 
Lifting  her  soft  blue  eyes  to  mine  : 

"  Dear  Paul! 

There  are  some  things,  and  some  I  will  not  name, 
That  make  me  sad,  e'en  in  this  height  of  joy. 
In  the  wild  lay  that  you  have  read  to-night, 
You  make  too  much  of  me.     No  heart  of  man, 
Though  loving  well  and  loving  worthily, 
Can  be  content  with  any  human  love. 
No  woman,  though  the  pride  and  paragon 
Of  all  her  sex,  can  take  the  place  of  God. 
No  angel  she :    nor  is  she  quite  a  man 
In  power  and  courage, — gifts  which  charm  her  most, 
And  which,  possessing  most,  disrobe  her  charms, 


•SLOW  IN   THE   GOLDEN   TWILIGHT,    .... 
HER  HAND  UPON  MY  ARM,  WE  LOITERED  ON.1 


KATIIRINA.  22T 

And  make  her  less  a  woman.     If  she  stand 
In  fair  equality  with  man — his  mate — • 
Each  unto  each  the  rounded  complement 
Of  their  humanity,  it  is  enough  ; 
And  such  equality  must  ever  lie 
In  their  unequal  gifts.     This  thing,  at  least, 
Is  true  as  God  :    she  is  not  more  than  he, 
And  sits  upon  no  throne.     To  be  adored 
By  man,  she  must  be  placed  upon  a  throne 
Built  by  his  hands,  and  sit  an  idol  there, 
Degraded  by  the  measure  of  the  flight 
Between  God's  thought  and  man's." 

Responding,  I  : 

"  Fix  your  own  place,  my  love  ;    it  is  your  right. 
'Tis  well  to  have  a  theory,  and  sit 
In  the  centre  of  it,  mistress  of  its  law, 
And  subject  also  ; — to  set  men  up  here 
And  women  there,  in  a  fine  equipoise 
Of  gift  and  grace  and  import.     It  conveys 
To  nicely-working  minds  a  pleasant  sense 
Of  order,  like  a  well-appointed  room, 
Where  one  may  see,  in  various  stuffs  and  wares, 
Forethoughts  of  color  brought  to  harmony  ; 
Strict  balancings  of  quantity  and  form  ; 
Flowers  in  the  center,  and,  beside  the  grate, 
A  rack  for  shovel  and  tongs.     But  minds  like  these 
(Your  pardon,  love  !)  are  likely  to  arrange 
The  window-lights  to  save  the  furniture, 
And  spoil  the  pictures  on  the  wall.     And  you, 
In  the  adjustment  of  your  theory, 
Would  shut  the  light  from  her  whose  mind  informs 
Its  harmonies.     All  worship,  in  my  thought, 
Goes  hand  in  hand  with  love.     We  cannot  love, 
And  fail  to  worship  what  we  love.     While  you 


222  KATHRINA. 

Worship  the  strength  and  courage  which  you  find 

In  him  who  has  your  heart,  he  bows  to  all 

Of  faith  and  sweetness  which  he  finds  in  you. 

If,  in  our  worship,  we  have  need  to  build 

Noblest  ideals,  taking  much  from  God 

With  which  to  make  them  perfect  in  our  eyes, 

Shall  God  mark  blame  ?     We  worship  him  the  while, 

In  attributes  his  own,  or  attributes 

With  which  our  thought  invests  him.     As  for  me — 

It  is  no  secret — I  am  what  you  call 

A  godless  man  ;    yet  what  is  worshipful, 

Or  seems  to  be  so,  that  with  all  my  heart 

I  worship ;    and  I  worship  while  I  love. 

You  deem  yourself  the  dwelling-place  of  God, 

And  keep  your  spirit  cleanly  for  his  feet. 

All  merit  you  abjure,  ascribing  all 

To  him  who  dwells  within  you.     How  can  you 

Forbid  that  I  fall  down  and  worship  you, 

When  what  I  find  to  worship  is  not  yours, 

But  God's  alone  ?     I  know  the  ecstasy 

Enlarges,  strengthens,  purifies  my  soul, 

And  blesses  me  with  peace.     My  love,  my  life, 

You  are  my  all.     I  have  no  other  good, 

And,  in  this  moment  of  my  happiness, 

I  ask  no  other." 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes, 

Her  clasped  hands  clinging  fondly  to  my  arm, 
While  under  droop  of  lashes  she  replied  : 
"  I  feel,  dear  Paul,  that  this  is  sophistry. 
It  does  not  touch  my  judgment  or  my  heart 
With  motive  of  conviction.     In  what  way 
God  may  be  working  to  reclaim  your  will 
And  worship  to  himself,  I  cannot  know. 
If  through  your  love  for  me,  or  mine  for  you, 


KATHRINA.  223 

Then,  as  his  grateful,  willing  instrument, 

I  yield  myself  to  him.     But  this  is  trie  ;' 

God  is  not  worshiped  in  his  attributes. 

I  do  not  love  your  attributes,  but  you. 

Your  attributes  all  meet  me  otherwhere, 

Blended  in  other  personalities, 

Nor  do  I  love,  nor  do  I  worship  them, 

Or  those  who  bear  them.     E'en  the  spotted  pard 

Will  dare  a  danger  which  will  make  you  pale, 

But  shall  his  courage  steal  my  heart  from  you  ? 

You  cheat  your  conscience,  for  you  knosv  that  I 

May  like  your  attributes,  yet  love  not  you ; 

Nay,  worship  them  indeed,  despising  you. 

I  do  not  argue  this  to  damp  your  joy, 

But  make  it  rational.     If  you  presume 

Perfection  in  me, — if  you  lavish  all 

The  largess  of  your  worship  and  your  love 

On  me,  imposing  on  my  head  a  crown 

Stolen  from  God's,  there  surely  waits  your  heart 

The  pang  of  disappointment.     There  will  come 

A  sad,  sad  time,  when,  in  your  famished  soul, 

The  cry  for  something  more,  and  more  divine, 

Will  rise,  nor  be  repressed." 

There  is  a  charm 

In  earnestness,  when  it  inspires  the  lips 
Of  one  we  love,  that  spoils  their  argument, 
And  yields  so  much  of  pleasure  and  of  pride, 
That  the  conviction  which  they  seek  evades 
Their  eager  ringers,  and  with  throbbing  wings 
Crows  from  its  covert. 

She  was  casuist, 

Cunning  and  clear  ;  and  I  was  proud  of  her  ; 
And  though  I  knew  that  she  had  swept  away 


224  KATHRINA. 

My  refuges  of  lies  like  chaff,  and  proved 
My  fair  words  fustian,  I  was  moved  to  mirth 
Over  the  solemn  ruin.     Had  it  been 
A  decent  thing  to  do,  I  should  have  laughed 
Full  in  her  face  ;  but  knowing  that  her  Avords 
Were  offspring  of  her  conscience  and  her  love, 
I  could  no  less  than  hold  respectfully 
Her  earnest  warning. 


"  Well,  I'll  take  the  risk,'' 

I  said.     "  While  you  shall  have  the  argument, 
I  will  have  you,  who,  on  the  whole,  I  like 
Better  than  that.     And  you  shall  have  your  way, 
And  I  my  own,  in  common  liberty, 
With  things  like  these.     You,  doubtless,  are  to  me 
What  I  am  not  to  you.     We  are  unlike 
In  life  and  circumstance — alike  alone 
In  this  :  that  better  than  all  else  on  earth 
We  love  each  other.     This  is  basis  broad 
For  happiness,  or  broad  enough  for  me. 
If  you  build  better,  you  are  fortunate, 
Ay,  fortunate  indeed  ;    and  some  fine  day 
We'll  talk  about  it.     Let  us  have  to-night 
Joy  in  our  new  possessions,  and  defer 
This  little  joust  of  wits  and  consciences 
To  more  convenient  season." 


We  had  reached 

The  cottage  door  at  this  ;    and  there  her  aunt 
Awaited  our  return.     So,  hand  in  hand, 
Assuming  show  of  rustic  bashfulness, 
We  paused  before  her,  and  with  bows  profound 
Made  our  obeisance. 


KATIIRINA.  225 

"Well?"  she  said  at  length; 
"Well?— and  what  of  it?" 

"Are  you  not  surprised?" 
I  asked. 

"  Surprised,  indeed  !     Surprised  at  what  ?  " 

"At  what  you  see:    and  this!    and  this!"    I  said, 
Planting  a  kiss  upon  each  lovely  cheek 
Of  my  betrothed,  that  straightway  bloomed  with  rose. 
"What!   are  you  blind,  my  aunt?" 

"  You  silly  fools  ! 

I've  seen  it  from  the  first,"  she  answered  me. 
"  No  doubt  you  thought  that  you  were  very  deep, 
Very  mysterious — all  that  sort  of  thing. 
I've  watched  you,  and  if  you,  young  man,  had  been 
Aught  but  a  coward,  it  had  come  before, 
And  saved  some  sleep  o'nights  to  both  of  you. 
But  down  upon  your  knees,  for  benison 
Of  one  who  loves  you  both." 

We  knelt,  and  then 

She  kissed  us,  leaving  on  our  cheeks  the  tears 
That  sprang  to  brim  the  moment.     Her  shrewd  eyes, 
That  melted  in  the  sympathy  of  love, 
Would  not  meet  ours  again,  but  turned  away, 
And  sought  in  solitude  to  drain  themselves 
Of  their  strange  passion. 

God  forbid  that  I, 

With  weak  and  sacrilegious  lips,  betray 
The  confidence  of  love  ;    or  tear  aside 
The  secresy  behind  whose  snowy  folds 
10* 


226  KATIIRINA. 

Honor  and  virgin  modesty  retire 

For  holiest  communion !     For  the  fire 

Which  burns  upon  that  altar  is  of  God. 

Its  tongues  of  flame,  throughout  all  time  and  space, 

Speak  but  one  language,  understood  by  all, 

But  sacred  ever  to  the  wedded  hearts 

That  listen  to  their  breathings. 

In  the  deep  hours  of  night 
I  left  the  cottage,  brain  and  heart  o'erfilled 
With  the  ethereal  vintage  I  had  quaffed. 
Disturbing  not  the  drowsy  ferryman, 
I  slipped  his  little  wherry  from  the  sand, 
And  in  the  star-sprent  river  lipped  the  oars 
That  pulled  me  homeward.     The  enchanting  tide 
Was  smooth  continuation  of  the  dream 
On  which  my  spirit,  holily  afloat, 
Had  glided  through  long  hours  of  happiness. 
Earth,  by  the  strange,  delicious  ecstasy, 
Was  changed  to  paradise  ;    and  something  kin 
To  gratitude  arose  within  my  soul — 
A  fleeting  passion,  dying  all  too  soon, 
Lacking  the  root  which  faith  alone  can  feed. 

I  touched  the  shore  ;   but  when  my  hasting  feet 
Started  the  homeward  walk,  there  came  a  change. 
Down  from  the  quiet  stars  there  fell  a  voice, 
Heard  in  the  innermost,  that  troubled  me  : 
"  She  is  not  more  than  you  :    why  worship  her  ? 
And  she  will  die  :    what  will  remain  for  you  ? 
You  may  die  first,  indeed  :    then  what  resource  ? 
You  have  no  sympathy  with  her  in  things 
Ordained  within  her  conscience  and  her  life 
The  things  supreme  :    can  there  be  marriage  thus  ? 
Is  e'en  such  bliss  as  may  be  possible 


KATHRINA.  22? 

Sure  to  be  yours  ?     Fate  has  a  thousand  hands 
To  dash  your  lifted  cup." 

With  thoughts  like  these, 
A  vague  uneasiness  invaded  me, 
And  toned  the  triumph  of  my  passion,  till, 
Almost  in  anger,  I  exclaimed  at  last  : 
"  This  is  reaction.     I  have  flown  too  high 
Above  the  healthy  level,  and  I  feel 
The  press  of  denser  air.     The  equipoise 
Of  circumstance  and  feeling  will  be  reached 
All  in  good  time.     Rest  and  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  bring  the  remedy,  and,  with  the  mists, 
This  cloud  will  pass  away." 

Then  with  clenched  hands 
I  swore  I  would  be  happy, — that  my  soul 
Should  find  its  satisfaction  in  her  love  ; 
And  that,  if  there  should  ever  come  a  time 
Of  cold  satiety,  or  I  should  find 

Weakness  or  fault  where  I  had  thought  was  strength 
And  full  perfection,  I  would  e'en  endow 
Her  poverty  with  all  the  hoarded  wealth 
Of  my  imagination,  making  her 
The  woman  of  my  want,  in  plenitude 
Of  strength  and  loveliness. 

The  breezy  days 

Over  whose  waves  my  buoyant  life  careered, 
Rolled  to  October,  falling  on  its  beach 
With  bursts  of  mellow  music  ;    and  I  leaped 
Upon  the  longed-for  shore  ;    for,  in  that  month, 
My  dear  betrothed,  deferring  to  the  stress 
Of  my  impatient  wish,  had  promised  me 
Her  hand  in  wedlock. 


228  KATHRINA. 

Ere  the  happy  day 

Dawned  on  the  world,  the  world  was  draped  in  robes 
Meet  for  the  nuptials.     Baths  of  sunny  haze, 
Steeping  the  ripened  leaves  from  day  to  day, 
And  dainty  kisses  of  the  frost  at  night, 
Joined  in  the  subtile  alchemy  that  wrought 
Such  miracles  of  change,  that  myriad  trees 
Which  pranked  the  meads  and  clothed  the  forest  glooms 
Bloomed  with  the  tints  of  Eden.     Had  the  earth 
Been  splashed  with  blood  of  grapes  from  every  clime, 
Tinted  from  topaz  to  dim  carbuncle, 
Or  orient  ruby,  it  would  not  have  been 
Drenched  with  such  waste  of  color.     All  the  hues 
The  rainbow  knows,  and  all  that  meet  the  eye 
In  flowers  of  field  and  garden,  joined  to  tell 
Each  tree's  close-folded  secret.     Side  by  side 
Rose  sister  maples,  some  in  amber  gold, 
Others  incarnadine  or  tipped  with  flame  ; 
And  oaks  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  stood, 
And  flouted  one  another  through  the  storms — 
Boasting  their  might — proclaimed  their  pique  or  pride 
In  dun,  or  dyes  of  Tyre.     The  sumac-leaves 
Blazed  with  such  scarlet  that  the  crimson  fruit 
Which  hung  among  their  flames  was  touched  to  guise 
Of  dim  and  dying  embers  ;    while  the  hills 
That  met  the  sky  at  the  horizon's  rim — 
Dabbled  with  rose  among  the  evergreens, 
Or  stretching  off  in  sweeps  of  clouted  crimson — glowed 
As  if  the  archery  of  sunset  clouds, 
By  squads  and  fierce  battalions,  had  rained  down 
Its  barbed  and  feathered  fire,  and  left  it  fast 
To  advertise  th'  exploit. 

In  such  pomp 
Of  autumn  glory,  by  the  simplest  rites, 


KATHRINA.  229 

Kathrina  gave  her  hand  to  me,  and  I 

Pledged  truth  and  life  to  her.     I  bore  her  home 

Through  shocks  of  maize,  revealing  half  their  gold, 

Past  gazing  harvesters  with  creaking  wains 

That  brimmed  with  fruitage — my  adored,  my  wife, 

Fruition  of  my  hope — the  proudest  freight 

That  ever  passed  that  way  ! 


My  troops  of  friends, 

Grown  strangely  warm  and  strangely  numerous 
With  scent  of  novelty  and  pleasant  cheer, 
Assisted  me  to  place  upon  her  throne 
My  household  queen.     Right  royally  she  sat 
The  new-born  dignity.     Most  graciously 
She  spoke  and  smiled  among  the  silken  clouds 
That,  fold  on  perfumed  fold,  like  frankincense 
Enveloped  her,  through  half  the  festal  night, 
With  welcome  and  good  wishes.     I  was  proud  ; 
For  was  not  I  a  king  where  she  was  queen  ? 
And  queen  she  was — though  consort  in  my  home, 
Queen  regnant  in  the  realm  of  womanhood, 
By  right  of  every  charm. 


Into  her  place, 

As  mistress  of  all  home  economies, 
She  slid  without  a  jar,  as  if  the  Fates, 
By  concert  of  foreordinate  design, 
Had  fitted  her  for  it,  and  it  for  her, 
And,  having  joined  them  well,  were  satisfied. 
Obedient  to  the  orbit  of  our  love, 
We  came  and  went,  revolving  round  our  home 
In  spheral  harmony — twin  stars  made  one, 
And  loyal  to  one  law. 


230  KATHRINA. 

When  at  our  board, 
All  viands  lifted  by  her  hand  became 
Ambrosial ;    and  her  light,  elastic  step 
From  room  to  room,  in  busy  household  cares, 
Timed  with  my  heart,  and  filled  me  with  a  sense 
Of  harmony  and  peace.     Days,  weeks,  and  months 
Lapsed  like  soft  measures,  rhyming  each  with  each, 
All  charged  with  thoughtful  ministries  to  me, 
And  not  to  me  alone ;    for  I  was  proud 
To  know  that  she  was  counted  by  the  good 
As  a  good  power  among  them, — by  the  poor, 
As  angel  sent  of  God,  on  whom  they  called 
His  blessing  down. 

She  held  her  separate  life 
Of  prayer  and  Christian  service,  without  show 
Of  sanctity,  without  obtrusiveness  ; 
And,  though  I  could  but  know  she  never  sought 
A  blessing  for  herself,  forgetting  me 
In  her  petition,  not  in  all  those  months 
Did  word  of  difference  betray  the  gulf 
Between  our  souls  and  lives.     She  had  her  plan  : 
I  guessed  it,  and  respected  it.     She  felt 
That  if  her  life  were  not  an  argument 
To  move  me,  nothing  that  her  lips  might  say 
Could  win  me  to  her  wish.     Pride  would  repel 
What  it  could  not  refute,  and  pleasantry 
Parry  the  thrusts  that  love  could  not  resent. 

A  whole  year  sped,  yet  not  a  line  of  verse 
Had  grown  beneath  my  pen.     When  I  essayed 
To  brace  my  powers  to  effort,  and  to  call 
Forth  from  their  camp  and  covert  the  bright  ranks 
Of  tuneful  numbers,  no  responsive  shout 
Answered  the  bugle -blast,  and  from  my  hand — 


KATHRINA.  231 

Irresolute  and  nerveless  as  a  babe's — 
My  falchion  fell. 

She  rallied  me  on  this  ; 

But  I  had  naught  to  say,  save  this,  perhaps  : 
That  she,  being  all  my  world,  had  left  no  room 
For  other  occupation  than  my  love. 
She  did  not  smile  at  this  :    it  was  no  jest, 
But  saddest  truth.     I  had  grown  enervate 
In  the  warm  atmosphere  which  I  had  breathed ; 
And  this,  with  consciousness  that  in  her  soul — 
As  warm  with  love  as  mine — each  gentle  power 
Was  kindling  with  new  life  from  day  to  day, 
Growing  with  my  decline. 

Well,  in  good  time, 

There  came  to  us  a  child,  the  miniature 
Of  her  on  whose  dear  breast  my  babyhood 
Was  nursed  and  cradled  ;    and  my  happy  heart, 
Charged  with  a  double  tenderness,  received 
And  blessed  the  precious  gift.     Another  fount 
Of  human  love  gurgled  to  meet  my  lips. 
Another  store  of  good,  as  rich  and  pure, 
In  its  own  kind,  as  that  from  which  I  drank, 
Was  thus  discovered  to  my  taste,  and  I 
Feasted  upon  its  fullness. 

With  the  gift 

That  brimmed  my  cup  of  joy,  there  came  a  grace 
To  her  who  bore  it  of  fresh  loveliness. 
If  I  had  loved  the  maiden  and  the  bride, 
The  mother,  through  whose  pain  my  heart  had  won 
Its  new  possession,  fastened  to  my  heart 
With  a  new  sympathy.     Whatever  dross 
Our  months  of  intimacy  had  betrayed 


232  KATHRINA. 

Within  her  character,  was  purged  away, 

And  she  was  left  pure  gold.     Nay,  I  should  say, 

Whatever  goodness  had  not  been  revealed 

Through  the  relations  of  her  heart  to  mine 

As  loving  maid  and  mistress,  found  the  light 

Through  her  maternity.     A  heavenly  change 

Passed  o'er  her  soul  and  o'er  her  pallid  face, 

As  if  the  unconscious  yearning  of  a  life 

Had  found  full  satisfaction  in  the  birth 

Of  the  new  being.     Her  long  weariness 

Was  but  a  trance  of  peace  and  gratitude ; 

And  as  she  lay — her  babe  upon  her  breast, 

Her  eyelids  closed — I  could  but  feel  that  heaven, 

Should  it  hold  all  the  good  of  which  she  dreamed, 

Had  little  more  for  her. 

And  when  again 

She  moved  about  the  house,  in  ministry 
To  me  and  to  her  helpless  child,  I  knew 
That  I  had  tasted  every  precious  good 
That  woman  bears  to  man.     Ay,  more  than  this  : 
That  not  one  man  in  thousands  had  received 
Such  largess  of  affection,  and  such  prize 
Of  womanhood,  as  I  had  found  in  her, 
And  made  my  own.     The  whole  enchanting  round 
Of  pure,  domestic  commerce  had  been  mine. 
A  lover  blest,  a  husband  satisfied, 
A  father  crowned !     Love  had  no  other  boon 
To  offer  me,  and  held  within  its  gift 
No  other  title. 

Thus,  within  the  space 

Of  two  swift  years,  I  traversed  the  domain 
Of  novelty,  and  learned  that  I  must  glean 
The  garnered  fields  of  my  experience 


KATHRINA.  233 

To  gratify  the  greed  that  still  possessed 

My  sateless  heart.     The  time  had  come  to  me— 

Which  I  had  half  foreseen — when,  by  my  will, 

My  interest  in  those  I  loved  should  live 

Predominant  in  all  my  life.     I  nursed 

With  jealous  care  my  passion  for  my  wife. 

I  raised  her  to  an  apotheosis 

In  my  imagination,  where  I  bowed 

And  paid  my  constant  homage.     I  was  still 

Her  fond  and  loyal  lover ;    but  my  heart, 

That  had  so  freely  drunk,  with  full  content, 

Had  seen  the  bottom  of  the  cup  she  held  ; 

And  what  remained  but  tricks  to  eke  it  out, 

And  artifice  to  give  it  piquancy, 

And  sips  to  cool  my  tongue,  the  while  my  heart 

Was  hollow  with  its  thirst?     My  little  child 

Was  precious  to  my  soul  beyond  all  price  ; 

Mother  and  babe  were  all  that  they  could  be 

To  any  heart  of  man  ;    and  yet — and  yet ! 

Of  all  the  dull,  dead  weights  man  ever  bore, 
Sure,  none  can  wear  the  soul  with  discontent' 
Like  consciousness  of  power  unused.     To  feel 
That  one  has  gift  to  move  the  multitude, — 
To  act  upon  the  life  of  humankind 
By  force  of  will,  or  fire  of  eloquence, 
Or  voice  of  lofty  art,  and  yet,  to  feel 
No  stir  of  mighty  motive  in  the  soul 
To  action  or  endeavor  ;    to  behold 
The  fairest  prizes  of  this  fleeting  life 
Borne  off  by  patient  men  who,  day  by  day, 
By  bravest  toil  and  struggle,  reach  the  heights 
Of  great  achievement,  toiling,  struggling  thus 
With  a  strong  joy,  and  with  a  fine  contempt 
For  soft  and  selfish  passion  ;    to  see  this, 


234  KATHRINA. 

Yet  cling  to  such  a  passion,  like  a  slave 
Who  hugs  his  chains  in  sluggish  impotence, 
Refusing  freedom  lest  he  lose  the  crust 
The  chain  of  bondage  warrants  him — ah  !    this 
Is  misery  indeed ! 

Such  misery 

Was  mine.     I  held  the  consciousness  of  power 
To  labor  even-headed  with  the  best 
Who  wrought  for  fame,  or  strove  to  make  themselves 
Felt  in  the  world's  great  life  ;    and  yet,  I  felt 
No  lift  to  enterprise,  from  heaven  above 
Or  earth  beneath  ;    for  neither  God  nor  man 
Lived  in  my  love.     My  home  held  all  my  world  ; 
Yet  it  was  evident — I  felt,  I  knew — 
That  nought  could  fill  my  opening  want  but  toil ; 
And  there  were  times  when  I  had  hailed  with  joy 
The  curse  of  poverty,  compelling  me 
To  labor  for  my  bread,  and  for  the  bread 
Of  those  I  loved. 

My  neighbors  all  around 

Were  happy  in  their  work.     The  plodding  hind 
Who  served  my  hand,  or  groomed  my  petted  horse, 
Whistled  about  his  work  with  merry  heart, 
And  filled  his  measure  of  content  with  toil. 
In  all  the  streets  and  all  the  busy  fields. 
Men  were  astir,  and  doing  with  their  might 
What  their  hands  found  to  do.     They  drove  the  plough, 
They  trafficked,  builded,  delved,  they  spun  and  wove, 
They  taught  and  preached,  they  hasted  up  and  down 
Each  on  his  little  errand,  and  their  eyes 
Were  full  of  eager  fire,  as  if  the  earth 
And  all  its  vast  concerns  were  on  their  hands. 
Their  homes  were  fresh  with  guerdon  every  night, 


KATHRINA.  235 

And  ripe  with  impulse  to  new  industry 
At  each  new  dawn. 

I  saw  all  this,  but  knew 

That  they  were  not  like  me — were  most  unlike 
In  constitution  and  condition.     Thus, 
My  power  to  do,  and  do  the  single  thing 
My  power  was  shaped  to  do,  became,  instead 
Of  wings  to  bear  me,  weights  to  burden  me. 
The  moiling  multitude  for  little  tasks 
Found  little  motives  plenty  ;    but  for  me, 
Who  in  my  indolence  they  all  despised — 
Not  understanding  me — no  motive  rose 
To  lash  or  lead.     Even  the  love  I  dreamed 
Would  give  me  impulse  had  defrauded  me. 
Feeble  and  proud  ;    strong,  yet  emasculate  ; 
Centered  in  self,  and  still  despising  self  ; 
Goaded,  yet  held  ;    convinced,  but  never  moved  ; 
Such  conflict  ofttimes  held  and  harried  me 
That  death  had  met  with  welcome.     If  I  read, 
I  read  to  kill  my  time.     No  interest 
In  the  great  thoughts  of  others  moved  my  soul, 
Because  I  had  no  object ;    useless  quite 
The  knowledge  and  the  culture  I  possessed ; 
And  if  I  rode,  the  stale  monotony 
Of  the  familiar  landscapes  sickened  me. 

In  these  dull  years,  my  toddling  little  wean 
Grew  into  prattling  childhood,  and  I  gained 
Such  fresh  delight  from  her  as  kept  my  heart 
From  fatal  gloom ;   but  more  and  more  I  shunned 
The  world  around  me,  more  and  more  drew  in 
The  circle  of  my  life,  until,  at  last, 
My  home  became  my  hermitage.     I  knew 
The  dissolution  of  the  spell  would  come, 


236  KATHRINA. 

And,  though  I  dreaded  it,  I  longed  to  greet 

The  crash  and  transformation.     If  my  pride 

Forbade  the  full  confession  to  my  wife 

That  time  had  verified  her  prophecy, 

It  failed  to  hold  the  truth  from  her.     She  read, 

With  a  true  woman's  insight,  all  my  heart  ; 

But  with  a  woman's  sensitiveness  shrank 

From  questions  which  might  seem  to  carry  blame  ; 

And  so,  for  years,  there  lay  between  our  souls 

The  bar  of  silence. 

One  sweet  summer  eve, 
After  my  lamb  was  folded  and  before 
The  lamps  were  lighted,  as  I  sat  alone 
Within  my  room,  I  heard  reluctant  feet 
Seeking  my  door.     They  paused,  and  then  I  heard  : 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  " 

"  Ay,  you  may  always  come  ; 
And  you  are  welcome  always,"  I  replied. 

The  room  was  dim,  but  I  could  see  her  face 

Was  pale,  and  her  long  lashes  wet.     "Your  seat"— 

I  said,  with  open  arms.     Upon  my  knee, 

One  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  she  sank  down 

As  if  the  heart  within  her  breast  were  lead, 

And  she  were  weary  with  its  weight. 

"My  wife, 
What  burden  now  ?  "    I  asked  her  tenderly. 

She  fixed  her  swimming  eyes  on  mine,  and  said  : 
"  My  dear,  you  are  not  happy.  Years  have  gone 
Since  you  have  been  content.  I  bring  no  words 


KATHRINA.  237 

Of  blame  against  you  :  you  have  been  to  me 
A  comfort  and  a  joy.     Your  constancy 
Has  honored  me  as  few  of  all  my  sex 
Are  honored  by  your  own ;  but  while  you  pine 
With  secret  pain,  I  am  so  wholly  yours 
That  I  must  pine  with  you.     I've  waited  long 
For  you  to  speak ;  and  now  I  come  to  you 
To  ask  you  this  one  question  :  is  there  aught 
Of  toil  or  sacrifice  within  my  power 
To  ease  your  heart,  or  give  you  liberty 
Beyond  the  round  to  which  you  hold  your  feet  ? 
Speak  freely,  frankly,  as  to  one  who  loves 
Her  husband  better  than  her  only  child, 
And  better  than  herself." 


I  drew  her  head 

Down  to  my  cheek,  and  said  :  "  My  angel  wife  ! 
Whatever  torment  or  disquietude 
I  may  have  suffered,  you  have  never  been 
Its  cause,  or  its  occasion.     You  are  all — 
You  have  been  all — that  womanhood  can  be 
To  manhood's  want ;   and  in  your  woman's  love 
And  woman's  pain,  I  have  found  every  good 
My  life  has  known  since  first  our  lives  were  joined. 
You  knew  me  better  than  I  knew  myself ; 
And  your  prophetic  words  have  haunted  me 
Like  thoughts  of  retribution  :  '  There  will  come 
'  A  sad,  sad  time,  when  in  your  famished  soul 
'  The  cry  for  something  more,  and  more  divine 
'  Will  rise,  nor  be  repressed.'     For  something  more 
My  spirit  clamors:    nothing  more  divine 
I  ask  for." 

"  What  shall  be  this  '  something  more '  ?  " 


238  KATHRINA. 

"Work,"  I  replied;    "ay,  work,  but  never  here; 
Work  among  men,  where  I  may  feel  the  touch 
Of  kindred  life  ;  work  where  the  multitudes 
Are  surging ;  work  where  brains  and  hands 
Are  struggling  for  the  prizes  of  the  world  ; 
Work  where  my  spirit,  driven  to  its  bent 
By  competitions  and  grand  rivalries, 
Shall  vindicate  its  own  pre-eminence, 
And  wring  from  a  reluctant  world  the  meed 
Of  approbation  and  respect  for  which 
It  yearns  with  awful  hunger ;    work,  indeed, 
Which  shall  compel  the  homage  of  the  souls 
That  creep  around  me  here,  and  pity  you 
Because,  forsooth,  the  Fates  have  hobbled  you 
With  a  dull  drone.     I  know  how  sweet  the  love 
Of  two  fond  souls  ;    and  I  will  have  the  hearts 
Of  millions.     These  shall  satisfy  my  greed, 
And  round  the  measure  of  my  life ;  and  these 
My  work  shall  win  me." 

At  these  childish  words, 

She  raised  her  head,  and  with  a  sweet,  sad  smile 
Of  love  and  pity  blent,  made  her  response  : 
"  Not  yet,  my  husband — if  your  wife  may  speak 
A  thought  that  crosses  yours — not  yet  have  you 
Found  the  great  secret  of  content.     But  work 
May  help  you  toward  it,  and  in  any  case 
Is  better  far  than  idleness.     For  this, 
You  ask  of  me  to  sacrifice  this  home 
And  all  the  truest  friends  my  life  has  gained. 
I  do  it  from  this  moment  ;    glad  to  prove, 
At  any  tender  cost,  my  love  for  you, 
And  faith  in  your  endeavor.     I  will  go 
To  any  spot  of  earth  where  you  may  lead, 
And  go  rejoicing.     Let  us  go  at  once  ! " 


KATHRINA.  239 

"  I  burn  my  ships  behind  me,"  I  replied. 

"  Measure  the  cost  :    be  sure  no  secret  hope 

Of  late  return  be  found  among  the  flames ; 

For,  if  I  go,  I  leave  no  single  thread, 

Save  that  which  binds  me  to  my  mother's  grave, 

To  draw  me  back." 

"My  love  shall  be  the  torch 
To  light  the  fare,"  she  answered. 

Then  we  rose, 

And,  with  a  kiss,  marked  a  full  period 
To  love's  excess,  and  with  a  sweet  embrace 
Wrote  the  initial  of  a  stronger  life. 


A  REFLECTION. 


OH !    not  by  bread  alone  is  manhood  nourished 

To  its  supreme  estate  ! 
By  every  word  of  God  have  lived  and  flourished 

The  good  men  and  the  great. 
Ay,  not  by  bread  alone  ! 

"  Oh !  not  by  bread  alone  !  "  the  sweet  rose,  breathing 

In  throbs  of  perfume,  speaks  ; 
"  But  myriad  hands,  in  earth  and  air,  are  wreathing 

The  blushes  for  my  cheeks. 
Ay,  not  by  bread  alone  !  " 

"  Oh !  not  by  bread  alone !  "  proclaims  in  thunder 

The  old  oak  from  his  crest  ; 
"  But  suns  and  storms  upon  me,  and  deep  under, 

The  rocks  in  which  I  rest. 
Ay,  not  by  bread  alone !  " 

"Oh!  not  by  bread  alone!"     The  truth  flies  singing 

In  voices  of  the  birds  ; 
And  from  a  thousand  pastured  hills  is  ringing 

The  answer  of  the  herds  : 
"Ay,  not  by  bread  alone!" 


KATHRINA.  241 

Oh !  not  by  bread  alone !    for  life  and  being 

Are  finely  complex  all, 
And  increment,  with  element  agreeing, 

Must  feed  them,  or  they  fall. 
Ay,  not  by  bread  alone ! 

Oh  !    not  by  love  alone,   though  strongest,  purest, 

That  ever  swayed  the  heart ; 
For  strongest  passion  evermore  the  surest 

Defrauds  each  manly  part. 
Ay,  not  by  love  alone  ! 

Oh !    not  by  love  alone  is  power  engendered. 

Until  within  the  soul 
The  gift  of  every  motive  has  been  rendered, 

It  is  not  strong  and  whole. 
Ay,  not  by  love  alone  ! 

Oh !  not  by  love  alone  is  manhood  nourished 

To  its  supreme  estate : 
By  every  word  of  God  have  lived  and  flourished 

The  good  men  and  the  great. 
Ay,  not  by  love  alone  ! 


PART  III. 


LABOR. 

TEN  years  of  love  ! — a  sleep,  a  pleasant  dream 
That  passed  its  culmen  in  the  early  half, 
Concluding  in  confusion — a  wild  scene 
Of  bargains,  auctions,  partings,  and  what  not  ? — 
And  an  awaking  ! 

I  was  in  Broadway, 
A  unit  in  a  million.     Like  a  bath 
In  ocean  surf,  blown  in  from  farthest  seas 
Under  the  August  ardors,  the  grand  rush 
Of  crested  life  assailed  me  with  its  waves, 
And  cooled  me  while  it  fired.     With  sturdy  joy 
I  sought  its  broadest  billows,  and  resigned 
My  spirit  to  their  surge  and  sway  ;    or  stood 
In  sheltered  coves,  reached  only  by  the  spume 
And  crepitant  bubbles  of  the  yesty  floods, 
Drinking  the  roar,  the  sheen,  the  restlessness, 
As  inspiration,  both  of  sense  and  soul. 

I  saw  the  waves  of  life  roll  up  the  steps 

Of  great  cathedrals  and  retire  ;    and  break 

In  charioted  grandeur  at  the  feet 

Of  marble  palaces,  and  toss  their  spray 

Of  feathered  beauty  through  the  open  doors, 


244  KATHRINA. 

To  pile  the  restless  foam  within  ;    and  burst 
On  crowded  caravansaries,  to  fall 
In  quick  return  ;    and  in  dark  currents  glide 
Through  sinuous  alleys  and  the  grimy  loops 
Of  reeking  cellars  ;   and  with  softest  plash 
Assail  the  gilded  shrines  of  opulence, 
And  slide  in  musical  relapse  away. 

With  senses  dazed  and  stunned,  and  soul  o'erfilled 
With  chaos  of  new  thoughts,  I  turned  away, 
And  sought  my  city  home.     There  all  was  calm, 
With  wife  and  daughter  waiting  my  return, 
And  eager  with  their  welcome.     That  was  life  \— 
An  interest  in  the  great  world  of  life, 
A  place  for  toil  within  a  world  of  toil, 
And  love  for  its  reward.     "  Amen  !  "    I  said, 
"  And  twice  amen  !    I've  found  my  life  at  last, 
And  we  will  all  be  happy." 

Day  by  day — 

The  while  I  sought  adjustment  to  the  life 
Which  I  had  chosen,  and  with  careful  thought 
Gathered  to  hand  the  fair  material 
Elect  by  Fancy  for  the  organism 
Over  whose  germ  she  brooded — I  went  out, 
To  bathe  again  upon  the  shore  of  life 
My  long-enfeebled  nature. 

Every  day 

I  met  some  face  I  knew.     My  college  friends 
Came  up  in  strange  disguises.     Here  was  one, 
With  a  white  neck-cloth  and  a  saintly  face, 
Who  had  been  rusticated  and  disgraced 
For  lawlessness.     Now  he  administered 
A  charge  which  proved  that  he  had  been  at  work, 


KATHRINA.  245 

And  made  himself  a  man.     And  there  was  one — 

A  lumpy  sort  of  boy,  as  memory 

Recalled  him  to  me — grown  to  portliness 

And  splendid  spectacles.     He  drove  a  chaise, 

And  practiced  surgery, — was  on  his  way 

To  meet  a  class  of  youth,  who  sought  to  be 

Great  surgeons  like  himself,  and  took  full  notes 

Of  all  his  stolen  wisdom.     By  his  watch — 

A  gold  repeater,  with  a  mighty  chain — 

He  gave  me  just  five  minutes  ;    then  rolled  off — 

Pretension  upon  wheels.     Another  grasped 

My  hand  as  if  I  were  his  bosom  friend, 

Just  in  from  a  long  voyage.     He  was  one 

Who  stole  my  wood  in  college,  and  received 

With  grace  the  kick  I  gave  him.     He  had  grown 

To  be  the  tail  of  a  portentous  firm 

Of  city  lawyers  :    managed,  as  he  said, 

The  matter  of  collections  ;    and  had  made 

In  his  small  way — to  use  his  modest  phrase, 

Truthful  as  modest — quite  a  pretty  plum. 

He  was  o'erjoyed  to  see  me  in  the  town  : 

Hoped  I  would  call  upon  him  at  his  den  : 

If  I  had  any  business  in  his  line, 

Would  do  it  for  me  promptly  ;    as  for  price, 

No  need  to  talk  of  that  between  two  friends  ! 

But  these,  and  all — the  meanest  and  the  best — 

Were  hard  at  work.     They  always  questioned  me 

Before  we  parted,  touching  my  pursuits  ; 

And  though  they  questioned  kindly,  I  grew  sore 

Under  the  repetition,  and  ashamed 

To  iterate  my  answer,  till  I  burned 

To  do  some  work,  so  lifted  into  fame, 

That  shame  should  be  to  him  whose  ignorance 

Compelled  a  question. 


246  KATHRINA. 

Simplest  foresters 

Have  learned  the  trick  of  woodland  broods,  that  fly 
In  radiant  divergence  from  the  flash 
Of  death  and  danger,  and,  when  all  is  still, 
Steal  back  to  where  their  fellows  bit  the  dust 
For  rendezvous.     And  thus  society 
Follows  the  brutal  instinct.     When  the  friends, 
Who  from  her  father's  ruin  fled  amain, 
Found  out  my  wife,  and  learned  that  it  was  safe 
To  gather  back  to  the  old  feeding-ground, 
They  came.     Her  old  home  had  become  my  own 
And  they  were  all  delighted.     It  was  sweet 
To  have  her  back  again ;    and  it  was  sad 
To  know  that  those  who  once  were  happy  there, 
Dispensing  happiness,  could  come  no  more. 

It  had  its  modicum  of  earnestness, — 
This  talk  of  their's — and  she  received  it  all 
With  hearty  courtesy,  and  yielded  it 
The  unction  of  her  charity,  so  far 
That  it  was  smooth  and  redolent  to  her. 
The  difference — the  world-wide  difference — 
Between  my  wife  and  them  was  obvious  ; 
But  she  was  generous  through  nature's  gift 
I  fancied — could  not  well  be  otherwise  ; 
Although  their  fawning  filled  me  with  disgust. 
Oh !  fool  and  blind !  not  to  perceive  the  Christ 
That  shone  and  spoke  in  her ! 

The  hour  approached — 

The  pre-determined  time — when  I  should  close 
My  study-door,  and  wrap  my  kindling  brain 
In  the  poetic  dream  which,  day  by  day, 
Was  gathering  consistence  in  my  brain. 
The  quick,  creative  instinct  in  me  plumed 


KATIIRINA.  247 

Its  pinions  for  the  flight,  and  I  could  feel 
The  influx  of  fresh  power  ;    but  whence  it  came, 
I  did  not  question  ;  though  it  fired  my  heart 
With  the  assurance  of  success. 

I  told 

My  dear  companion  of  my  hopeful  plans 
For  winning  fame,  and  making  for  myself 
A  lofty  place  ;  but  I  could  not  inspire 
Her  heart  with  my  ambition,  or  win  o'er 
Her  judgment  to  my  motive.     She  adhered 
To  her  old  theory,  and  gave  no  room 
To  any  motive  it  did  not  embrace. 
We  argued  much,  but  always  argued  wide, 
And  ended  where  we  started.     Postulates 
On  which  we  stood  in  perfect  harmony, 
Were  points  of  separation,  out  from  which 
We  struck  divergently,  till  sympathy, 
That  only  lives  by  rhythm  of  thoughts  and  hearts, 
Lay  dead  between  us. 

"  Man  loves  praise,"  I  said. 
"  It  is  an  appetence  which  He  who  made 
The  human  soul,  made  to  be  satisfied. 
It  is  a  tree  He  planted.     If  it  grow 
On  that  which  feeds  it,  and  become  at  last 
Thrifty  and  fruitful,  it  is  still  His  own, 
With  usury.     And  if,  in  His  intent, 
This  passion  have  no  place  among  the  powers 
Of  active  life,  why  is  it  mighty  there 
From  youngest  childhood  ?     Pray  you  what  is  fame 
But  concrete  praise  ? — the  universal  voice 
Which  bears,  from  every  quarter  of  the  earth, 
Its  homage  to  a  name,  that  grows  thereby 
To  be  its  own  immortal  monument, 


248  KATHRINA. 

Outlasting  all  the  marble  and  the  bronze 

Which  cunning  fingers,  since  the  world  began, 

Have  shaped  or  stamped  with  story  ?     What  is  fame 

But  aggregate  of  praise  ?     And  if  it  be 

Legitimate  to  win,  for  sake  of  praise, 

The  praise  of  one,  why  not  of  multitudes  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  she  replied  ;    "  'tis  true  that  men  love  praise  ; 

And  it  is  true  that  He  who  made  the  soul 

Planted  therein  the  love  of  praise,  to  be 

A  motive  in  its  life — all  true  so  far ; 

And  so  far  we  agree.     But  motives  all 

Have  their  appropriate  sphere  and  sway,  like  men 

Who  bear  them  in  their  breasts.     The  love  of  praise 

Fills  life  with  fine  amenities.     Not  all 

Who  live  have  pleasant  tempers,  and  not  all 

The  gift  of  gracious  manners,  or  the  love 

Of  nobler  motive,  higher  meed  than  praise. 

The  world  is  full  of  bears,  who  smooth  their  hair, 

And  glove  their  paws,  and  put  on  manly  airs, 

And  hold  our  honey  sacred,  and  our  lives 

Our  own,  because  they  hunger  for  our  praise. 

'Tis  a  fine  thing  for  bears — this  love  of  praise  — 

And  those  who  deal  with  them ;    and  a  good  thing 

For  children,  and  for  parents,  teachers — all 

Who  have  them  in  their  keeping.     It  may  hold 

A  little  mind  to  rectitude,  until 

It  grow,  and  grow  ashamed  to  yield  itself 

To  such  a  petty  motive.     Children  all 

Like  sugar,  and  it  may  admit  of  doubt 

Whether  our  praise  or  sugar  sweetens  more 

Their  petulant  sub-acids  ;    but  a  man 

Would  choke  in  swallowing  the  compliment 

Which  we  should  pay  him,  were  we  but  to  say 

'  Go  to  !     Do  some  great  deed,  and  you  shall  have 


KATHRINA.  249 


Your  pay  in  sugar  : — maple,  mind  you,  now, 
So  you  shall  do  it  featly.' " 


"  Very  good!" 

I  answered,  "  very  good,  indeed !  if  we 
Engage  in  talk  for  sport ;    but  argument 
On  themes  like  these  must  have  the  element 
Of  candor.     Highest  truth,  in  certain  lights, 
May  be  ridiculous,  and  yet  be  truth. 
Women  are  angels  :    just  a  little  weak 
And  just  a  little  wicked,  it  may  be, 
Yet  still  the  sweetest  beings  in  the  world  ; 
But  when  one  stands  with  apprehensive  gasp 
At  verge  of  sternutation,  or  leaps  off, 
Projecting  all  her  being  in  a  sneeze, 
Or  snores  with  lips  wide-parted,  or  essays 
The  '  double-quick,'  we  turn  our  eyes  away 
In  sadness,  that  a  creature  so  divine 
Can  be  so  shockingly  ridiculous  ; 
Yet  who  shall  say  she's  not  an  angel  still  ? 
Now  you  present  to  me  the  meanest  face 
Of  a  most  noble  truth.     I  laugh  with  you 
Over  its  sorry  semblance  ;    but  the  truth 
Is  still  divine,  and  claims  our  reverence. 
The  great  King  Solomon — and  you  believe 
In  Solomon — has  said  that  a  good  name 
Is  more  to  be  desired  than  much  fine  gold. 
If  a  good  name  be  matter  of  desire 
Beyond  all  wealth — and  you  will  pardon  me 
For  holding  to  the  record — it  may  stand 
As  a  grand  motive  in  the  life  of  man, 
To  grand  endeavor.     I  have  yet  to  learn 
That  Solomon  addressed  his  words  to  bears, 
Or  little  children.     I  am  forced  to  think 


250  KATHRINA. 

That  you  and  I,  and  all  who  read  his  words, 
Are  those  for  whom  he  wrote." 

Rejoining  she  : 

"A  good  may  be  the  subject  of  desire, 
And  not  be  motive  to  achievement.     Life, 
If  I  may  speak  the  riddle,  is  a  scheme 
Of  indirections.     My  own  happiness 
Is  something  to  desire  ;    and  yet,  I  know 
That  I  must  win  it  by  forgetting  it 
In  ministry  to  others.     If  I  make 
My  happiness  the  motive  of  my  work, 
I  spoil  it  by  the  taint  of  selfishness. 
But  are  you  sure  that  you  do  not  presume 
Somewhat  too  much,  in  claiming  the  desire 
For  a  good  name  as  motive  of  your  life  ? 
Greatness,  not  goodness,  is  the  end  you  seek, 
If  I  mistake  you  not ;    and  these  are  held, 
In  the  world's  thought,  as  two,  and  most  distinct. 
King  Solomon  was  wise,  but  wiser  He 
Who  said  to  those  who  loved  and  followed  him, 
'  Who  would  be  great  among  you,  let  him  serve.' 
The  greatest  men — and  artists  should  be  such, 
For  they  are  God's  nobility  and  man's — 
Should  work  from  greatest  motives.     Selfishness 
Is  never  great,  and  moves  to  no  great  deeds. 
To  honor  God,  to  benefit  mankind, 
To  serve  with  lofty  gifts  the  lowly  needs 
Of  the  poor  race  for  which  the  God -man  died, 
And  do  it  all  for  love — oh  !    this  is  great ! 
And  he  who  does  this  will  .achieve  a  name 
Not  only  great  but  good." 

"  Not  in  this  world," 
I  answered  her.     "  I  know  too  much  cf  it. 


KATHRINA.  251 

The  world  is  selfish  ;    and  it  never  gives 

Due  credit  to  a  motive  which  assumes 

To  be  above  its  own.     If  a  man  write, 

It  takes  for  granted  that  he  writes  for  fame, 

And  judges  him  accordingly.     It  holds 

Of  no  account  all  other  aims  and  ends  ; 

And  visits  with  contempt  the  man  who  bears 

A  mission  to  his  kind.     The  critic  pens 

That  twiddle  with  his  work,  or  play  with  it 

As  cats  with  mice,  are  not  remarkable 

For  gentle  instincts  ;    and  my  name  must  live 

By  pens  like  these.     I  choose  to  take  the  world 

Just  as  I  find  it,  and  I  pitch  my  tune 

To  the  world's  key,  that  it  may  sing  my  tune, 

And  sing  for  me.     Ay,  and  I  take  myself 

Just  as  I  find  myself.     I  do  not  love 

The  human  race  enough  to  work  for  it. 

Having  no  motive  of  philanthropy, 

I'll  make  pretense  to  none.     The  love  of  praise 

I  count  legitimate  and  laudable. 

'Tis  not  the  noblest  motive  in  the  world, 

But  it  is  good  ;    and  it  has  won  more  fames 

Than  any  other.     Surely,  my  good  wife, 

You  would  not  shut  me  from  it,  and  deprive 

My  power  of  its  sole  impulse." 

"  No  ;    oh  !    no," 

She  answered  quickly.     "  I  am  only  sad 
That  it  should  be  the  captain  of  your  host. 
All  creatures  of  the  brain  are  the.  result 
Of  many  motives  and  of  many  powers. 
All  life  is  such,  indeed.     The  power  that  leads — 
The  motive  dominant — this  stamps  the  work 
With  its  own  likeness.     Throughout  all  the  world 
Are  careful  souls,  with  careful  consciences, 


252  KATHRINA. 

That  pierce  themselves  with  questionings  and  fears 

Because  that,  with  the  motives  which  are  good, 

And  which  alone  they  seek,  a  hundred  come 

They  do  not  seek,  and  aye  sophisticate 

Their  finest  action.     They  are  wrong  in  this  : 

All  motives  bowing  to  one  leadership, 

And  aiding  its  emprise,  are  one  with  it — 

The  same  in  trend,  the  same  in  terminus. 

All  the  low  motives  that  obey  the  law, 

And  aid  the  work,  of  one  above  them  all, 

Do  holy  service,  and  fulfill  the  end 

For  which  they  were  designed.     The  love  of  praise 

Is  not  the  lowest  motive  which  can  move 

The  human  soul.     Nay,  it  may  do  good  work 

As  a  subordinate,  and  leave  no  soil 

On  whitest  fabric,  at  whose  selvage  shines 

The  Master's  broidered  signature.     Although 

You  write  for  fame,  think  not  you  will  escape 

The  press  of  other  motives.     You  love  me  ; 

You  love  your  child  ;    you  love  your  pleasant  home  ; 

You  love  the  memory  of  one  long  dead. 

These,  joined  with  all  those  qualities  of  heart 

Which  make  you  dear  to  me,  will  throng  around 

The  leader  you  appoint,  and  come  and  go 

Under  his  banner  ;    and  the  work  of  God 

Will  thrive  through  these,  the  while  your  own  goes  on. 

God  will  not  be  defrauded,  nor  yet  man  ; 

And  you,  who  like  the  Pharisees  make  prayer 

At  corners  of  the  streets,  for  praise  of  men, 

Will  have  reward  you  seek." 

"  Ay,  verily  !  " 

Responded  I  with  laughter.     "  Verily  ! 
Though  not  a  saint,  I'll  do  a  saintly  work 
For  my  own  profit,  and  in  spite  of  all 


KATHRINA.  253 

The  selfishness  that  moves  me.     Better,  this, 

Than  I  suspected.     My  sweet  casuist — 

My  gentle,  learned,  lovely  casuist — 

I  thank  you  ;    and  I'll  pay  you  more  than  thanks. 

I'll  promise  that  when  these  fine  motives  come, 

And  volunteer  their  service,  they  shall  find 

Welcome  and  entertainment,  and  a  place 

Within  the  rank  and  file,  with  privilege 

Of  quick  promotion,  so  they  show  themselves 

Motives  of  mettle." 

This  the  type  of  talk 

That  passed  between  us.     I  was  not  a  fool 
To  count  her  wisdom  worthless  ;    nor  a  God, 
To  work  regeneration  in  myself. 
That  something  which  I  longed  for,  to  fill  up 
The  measure  of  my  good,  was  human  praise  ; 
Yet  I  could  see  that  she  was  wholly  right, 
And  that  she  held  within  herself  resource 
Of  satisfaction  better  than  my  own. 
But  I  was  quite  content — content  to  know 
I  trod  the  average  altitude  of  those 
Within  the  paths  of  art,  and  had  no  aims 
To  be  misconstrued  or  misunderstood 
By  Pride  and  Selfishness — that  these,  in  truth, 
Expected  of  me  what  I  had  to  give. 

Strange,  how  a  man  may  carry  in  his  heart, 
From  year  to  year — through  all  his  life,  indeed — 
A  truth,  or  a  conviction,  which  shall  be 
No  more  a  part  of  it,  and  no  more  worth 
Than  to  his  flask  the  cork  that  slips  within  ! 
Of  this  he  learns  by  sourness  of  his  wine, 
Or  muddle  of  its  color  ;    by  the  bits 
That  vex  his  lips  while  drinking  ;    but  he  feels 


254  KATIIRINA. 

No  impulse  in  his  hand  to  draw  it  forth, 

And  bid  it  crown  and  keep  the  draught  it  spoils. 

I  write  this,  here,  not  for  its  relevance 
To  this  one  passage  of  my  story,  but 
Because  there  slipped  into  ray  consciousness 
Just  at  this  juncture,  and  would  not  depart, 
A  truth  I  carried  there  for  many  years, 
Each  minute  seeing,  feeling,  tasting  it, 
Yet  never  touching  it  with  an  attempt 
To  draw  it  forth,  and  put  it  to  its  place. 

One  evening,  when  our  usual  theme  was  up, 
I  asked  my  wife  in  playful  earnestness 
How  she  became  so  wise.     "  You  talk,"  I  said, 
"  Like  one  who  has  survived  a  thousand  years, 
And  drunk  the  wisdom  of  a  thousand  lives." 

"  Who  lacketh  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God, 
Who  giveth  freely  and  upbraideth  not," 
Was  her  reply. 

"  I  never  ask  of  God," 

I  said.     "  So,  while  you  take  at  second  hand 
His  breathings  to  the  artist,  I  will  take 
At  second  hand  the  wisdom  that  he  gives 
To  you,  his  teacher." 

"  Do  you  never  pray  ?  " 

"  Never,"  I  answered  her.     "  I  cannot  pray  : 
You  know  the  reason.     Never  since  the  day 
God  shut  his  heart  against  my  mother's  prayer 
Have  I  raised  one  petition,  or  been  moved 
To  reverence." 


KATHRINA.  255 

Her  long,  dark  lashes  fell, 

And  from  her  eyes  there  dropped  two  precious  tears 
That  bathed  her  folded  hands.     She  pitied  me, 
With  tenderness  beyond  the  reach  of  words. 
I  did  not  seek  her  pity.     I  was  proud, 
And  asked  her  if  she  blamed  me. 


"  No,"  she  said  ; 

"  I  have  no  right  to  blame  you,  and  no  wish. 
I  marvel  only  that  a  man  like  you 
Can  hold  so  long  the  errors  of  a  boy. 
I've  looked — with  how  much  longing,  words  of  mine 
Can  never  tell — for  reason  to  restore 
That  priceless  thing  which  passion  stole  from  you, 
And  looked  in  vain." 

Though  piqued  by  the  reproach 
Her  words  conveyed  (unwittingly  I  knew), 
I  wished  to  learn  where,  in  her  theory 
Of  human  life,  my  case  had  found  a  place  ; 
So,  bidding  pride  aback,  I  questioned  her. 
"  You  are  so  wise  in  other  things,"  I  said, 
"  And  read  so  well  God's  dealings  with  his  own, 
Perhaps  you  can  explain  this  mystery 
That  clouds  my  life." 

"  I  know  that  God  is  good," 
She  answered,  "and,  although  my  reason  fail 
To  explicate  the  mystery  that  wraps 
His  providence,  it  does  not  shake  my  faith. 
But  this  sad  case  of  yours  has  seemed  so  plain, 
That  Reason  well  may  spare  the  staff  of  Faith 
To  climb  to  its  conclusions.     You  are  loved, 
My  husband:    can  you  tell  your  wife  for  what?" 


256  KATHRINA. 

"Oh!   modesty!   my  dear;   hem!   modesty! 
Spare  "me  these  blushes !    I  have  not  at  hand 
The  printed  catalogue  of  qualities 
Which  give  you  inspiration,  and  decline 
The  personal  rehearsal." 

"You  mistake," 

She  answered,  smiling.     "Not  for  modesty; 
And  as  for  blushes,  they're  not  patent  yet. 
But  frankly,  soberly,  I  ask  you  this  : 
Have  you  a  quality  of  heart  or  brain 
Which  makes  you  lovable,  and  in  my  eyes 
A  man  to  be  admired,  that  was  not  born 
Quick  in  your  blood  ?     Pray,  have  you  anything 
Which  you  did  not  inherit  ?     Who  to  me 
Furnished  my  husband  ?     By  what  happy  law 
Was  all  that  was  the  finest,  noblest,  best 
In  those  who  gave  you  life,  bestowed  on  you  ? 
You  have  your  father's  form,  your  father's  brain  : 
You  have  your  mother's  eyes,  your  mother's  heart. 
Those  twain  produced  a  man  for  me  to  love, 
Out  of  themselves.     I  am  obliged  to  them 
For  the  most  precious  good  the  round  earth  holds, 
Transmitted  by  a  law  that  slew  them  both. 
It  was  not  sin,  or  shame,  for  them  to  die 
Just  as  they  died.     They  passed  with  whiter  hands 
Up  to  The  Throne  than  he  who  wantonly 
Murders  a  sparrow.     When  your  mother  prayed 
She  prayed  for  the  suspension  of  the  law 
By  which  from  Eve,  the  mother  of  the  race, 
She  had  received  the  grace  and  loveliness 
Which  made  her  precious  to  your  heart — the  law 
By  which  alone  she  could  convey  these  gifts 
To  others  of  her  blood.     Your  daughter's  face 
Is  beautiful,  her  soul  is  pure  and  sweet, 


KATHRINA.  257 

By  largess  of  this  law.     Could  God  subvert, 
To  meet  her  wish,  though  shaped  in  agony, 
The  law  which,  since  the  life  of  man  began 
In  life  of  God,  has  kept  the  channel  clear 
For  His  own  blood,  that  it  might  bless  the  last 
Of  all  the  generations  as  the  first  ? 
What  could  He  more  than  give  her  liberty — 
When  reason  lay  in  torture  or  in  wreck, 
And  life  was  death — to  part  with  stainless  hand 
The  tie  that  held  her  from  his  loving  breast  ? " 

If  God  himself  had  dropped  her  words  from  heaven, 

They  had  not  reached  with  surer  plummet-plunge 

The  depths  of  my  conviction.     I  was  dumb  ; 

I  opened  not  my  mouth  ;    but  left  her  side, 

And  sought  the  crowded  street.     I  felt  that  all 

Delusions,  subterfuges,  self-deceits, 

By  which  my  soul  had  shut  itself  from  God, 

Were  stripped  away,  and  that  no  barrier 

Was  interposed  between  us  which  was  not 

My  own  hand's  building.     Never,  nevermore, 

Could  I  hold  God  in  blame,  or  deem  myself 

A  guiltless,  injured  creature.     I  could  see 

That  I  was  hard,  implacable,  unjust ; 

And  that  by  force  of  willful  choice  I  held 

Myself  from  God  ;    for  no  impulsion  came 

To  seek  his  face  and  favor.     Nay,  I  feared 

And  fought  such  incidence,  as  enemy 

Of  all  my  plans. 

So  it  became  thenceforth 
A  problem  with  me  how  to  separate 
My  new  conviction  from  my  life — to  hold 
A  revolutionizing  truth  within, 
And  hold  it  yet  so  loosely,  it  should  be 


258  KATHRINA. 

Like  a  dumb  alien  in  a  mural  town — 
No  guest,  but  an  intruder,  who  might  bide, 
By  law  or  grace,  but  win  no  domicile, 
And  hold  no  power. 

When  I  returned,  that  night, 
My  course  was  chosen,  with  such  sense  of  guilt 
I  blushed  before  the  calm,  inquiring  eyes 
That  met  me  at  my  threshold  ;    but  the  theme 
Was  dropped  just  there.     My  gentle  mentor  read 
The  secret  of  the  struggle  and  the  sin, 
And  left  me  to  myself. 

At  the  set  time, 

I  entered  on  my  task.     The  discipline 
Of  early  years  told  feebly  on  my  work, 
For  dissipation  and  disuse  of  power 
Had  brought  me  back  to  infancy  again. 
My  will  was  weak,  my  patience  was  at  fault, 
And  in  my  fretful  helplessness,  I  stormed 
And  sighed  by  turns  ;    yet  still  I  held  in  force 
Determination,  as  reserve  of  will  ; 
And  when  I  flinched  or  faltered,  always  fell 
Back  upon  that,  and  saved  my  powers  from  rout. 
Casting,  recasting,  till  I  found  the  germ 
Of  my  conception  putting  forth  its  whorls 
In  orderly  succession  round  the  stem 
Of  my  design,  that  straight  and  strong  shot  up 
Toward  inflorescence,  my  long  work  went  on, 
Till  I  was  filled  with  satisfying  joy. 
This  lasted  for  a  little  time,  and  then 
There  came  reaction.     I  grew  tired  of  it. 
My  verses  were  as  meaningless  and  stale 
As  doggrel  of  the  stalls.     I  marveled  much 
That  they  could  ever  have  beguiled  my  pride 


"SHE  SAT 

THROUGH   THE  LONG   HOUR   IN    WHICH   I   READ  TO   HER, 
ABSORBED,   ENTRANCED,   AS  ONE   WHO  SITS  ALONE." 


KATHRINA.  259 

Into  self-gratulation,  or  done  aught 

But  overwhelm  me  with  contempt  for  them, 

And  the  dull  pen  that  wrote  them. 

I  had  hoped 

To  form  and  finish  my  projected  work 
Within,  and  by,  myself, — to  tease  no  ear 
With  fragmentary  snatches  of  my  song, 
And  call  for  no  support  from  friendly  praise 
To  reinforce  my  courage  ;    but  the  stress 
Of  my  disgust  and  my  despair — the  need, 
Imperative  and  absolute,  to  brace  myself 
By  some  opinion  borrowed  for  the  nonce, 
And  bathe  my  spirit  in  the  sympathy 
Of  some  strong  nature — mastered  my  intent, 
And  sent  me  for  resource  to  her  whose  heart 
Was  ever  open  to  my  call. 

•  She  sat 

Through  the  long  hour  in  which  I  read  to  her, 
Absorbed,  entranced,  as  one  who  sits  alone 
Within  a  dim  cathedral,  and  resigns 
His  spirit  to  the  organ-theme,  that  mounts, 
Or  sinks  in  tremulous  pauses,  or  sweeps  out 
On  mighty  pinions  and  with  trumpet  voice 
Through  labyrinthine  harmonies,  at  last 
Emerging,  and  through  silver  clouds  of  sound 
Receding  and  receding,  till  it  melts 
In  the  abysses  of  the  upper  sky. 
It  was  not  needful  she  should  say  a  word  ; 
For  in  her  glowing  eyes  and  kindling  face, 
I  caught  the  full  assurance  that  my  heart 
Had  yearned  for  ;    but  she  spoke  her  hearty  praise  ; 
And  when  I  asked  her  for  her  criticism, 
Bestowed  it  with  such  modest  deference 


260  KATHRINA. 

To  my  opinion,  as  to  spare  my  pride  ; 
Yet,  with  such  subtle  sense  of  harmony, 
And  insight  of  proportion,  that  I  saw 
That  I  should  find  no  critic  in  the  world 
More  competent  or  more  severe.     I  said, 
Gulping  my  pride:  "Better  this  ordeal 
In  friendly  hands,  before  the  time  of  types, 
Than  afterward,  in  hands  of  enemies ! " 

So,  from  that  reading,  it  was  understood 
Between  us  that,  whenever  I  essayed 
Revising  and  retouching,  I  should  know 
Her  intimate  impressions,  and  receive 
Her  frank  suggestions.     In  this  oversight 
And  constant  interest  of  one  whose  mind 
Was  excellent  and  pure,  and  raised  above 
All  motive  to  beguile  me,  I  secured 
New  inspiration. 

Weeks  and  months  passed  by 
With  gradient  hopefulness,  and  strength  renewed 
At  each  renewal  of  the  confidence 
I  had  reposed  in  her  ;  till  I  perceived 
That  I  was  living  on  her  praise — that  she 
Held  God's  place  in  me  and  the  multitude's. 
And  now,  as  I  look  back  upon  those  days 
Of  difficult  endeavor,  I  confess 
That  had  she  not  been  with  me,  I  had  failed — 
Ay,  foundered  in  mid-sea — my  hope,  my  life, 
The  spoil  of  deep  oblivion. 

At  last 

The  work  was  done — the  labored  volume  closed. 
"  I  cannot  make  it  better,"  I  exclaimed. 
"  I  can  write  better,  but,  before  I  write, 


KATHRINA.  26 1 

I  must  have  recognition  in  the  voice 
Of  public  praise.     A  good  paymaster  pays 
When  work  is  finished.     Let  him  pay  for  this, 
And  I  will  work  again  ;  but,  till  he  pay, 
My  leisure  is  my  own,  and  I  will  wait." 

"  And  if  he  grudge  your  wage  ?  "  suggested  she 
To  whom  I  spoke. 

"  I  shall  be  finished  too." 

Came  then  the  proofs  and  latest  polishing 
Of  words  and  phrases — work  I  shared  with  her 
To  whom  I  owed  so  much  ;  and  then  the  fear, 
The  deathly  heart-fall,  and  the  haunting  dread 
That  go  before  exposure  to  the  world 
Of  inmost  life,  and  utmost  reach  of  power 
Toward  revelation  ; — then  the  shrinking  spell, 
When  morbid  love  of  self  awaits  in  pain 
The  verdict  it  has  courted. 

But  at  last 

The  book  was  out.     My  daughter's  hand  in  mine — 
Her  careless  feet,  that  thrilled  with  springing  life, 
Skipping  the  pavement — I  walked  down  Broadway, 
To  ease  the  restlessness  and  cool  the  heat 
That  vexed  my  idle  waiting.     As  we  passed 
A  showy  window,  filled  with  costly  books, 
My  little  girl  exclaimed  :  "Oh,  father!     See! 
There  is  your  name !  " 

Straight  all  the  bravery 

Within  my  veins,  at  one  wild  heart-thump,  dropped, 
And  I  was  limp  as  water  ;  but  I  paused, 
And  read  the  placard.     It  announced  my  book 


262  KATHRINA. 

In  characters  of  flame,  with  adjectives 
My  daring  publisher  had  niched,  I  think, 
From  an  old  circus  broadside. 

"Well!"  thought  I— 
Biting  my  lip — "  I'm  in  the  market  now ! 
How  much — O  !  rattling,  roaring  multitude  ! 

0  !  selfish,  cheating,  lying  multitude  ! 

O!  hawking,  trading,  delving  multitude!- — 
How  much  for  one  man's  hope,  for  one  man's  life  ? 
What  for  his  toil  and  pain  ? — his  heart's  red  blood  ? 
What  for  his  brains  and  breeding  ?     Oh,  how  much 
For  one  who  craves  your  praises  with  your  pence, 
And  dies  with  your  denial  ?  " 

I  went  in, 

And  bought  my  book — not  doubting  I  was  first 
To  give  response  to  my  apostrophe. 
The  smug  old  clerk,  who  found  his  length  of  ear 
Convenient  as  a  pencil-rack,  and  thus 
Made  nature's  wrath  proclaim  the  praise  of  trade, 
Wrapped  my  dear  bantling  well ;  and,  as  he  dropped 
My  dollar  in  his  till,  smiled  languidly 
Upon  my  little  girl,  and  said  to  me — 
To  cheer  me  in  my  purchase — that  the  book 
Was  thought  to  be  a  deuced  clever  thing. 
He  never  read  such  books  :  he  had  no  time; 
Indeed,  he  had  no  interest  in  them. 
Still,  other  people  had,  and  it  was  well, 
For  it  helped  trade  along. 

It  was  for  him — 
A  vulgar  fraction  of  the  integral 
We  speak  of  as  "the  people,"  and  "  the  world" — 

1  had  been  writing !     Had  he  read  my  book, 


KATHRINA.  203 

And  given  it  his  praise,  I  should  have  been 
Delighted,  though  I  knew  that  his  applause 
Was  worthless  as  his  brooch.     I  was  a  fool 
Undoubtedly  ;  yet  I  could  understand, 
Better  than  e'er  before,  how  separate 
The  artist  is  from  such  a  soul  as  his — 
What  need  of  teachers  and  interpreters 
To  crumble  in  his  pewter  porringer 
The  rounded  loaf,  whose  crust  was  adamant 
To  his  weak  fingers. 

The  next  morning's  press 
Was  purchased  early,  though  I  read  in  vain 
To  find  my  reputation.     But  at  night, 
My  door-bell  rang;    and  I  received  a  note 
From  one  who  edited  an  evening  print, 
(I  had  dined  with  him  at  my  publisher's), 
Inclosing  a  review,  and  venturing 
The  hope  that  I  should  like  it. 

Cunning  man  ! 

He  knew  the  tricks  of  trade,  and  was  adroit. 
My  poem  was  "a  revelation."     I  had  "burst 
Like  thunder  from  a  calm  and  cloudless  sky." 
Well,  not  to  quote  his  language,  this  the  drift  : 
A  man  of  fortune,  living  at  his  ease, 
But  fond  of  manly  effort,   had  sat  down, 
And  turned  his  culture  to  supreme  account  ; 
And  he — the  editor — took  on  himself 
To  thank  him  on  the  world's  behalf.     Withal, 
The  poet  had  betrayed  the  continence 
Of  genius.     He  had  held,  undoubtedly, 
The  consciousness  of  power  from  early  youth ; 
But,  yielding  never  to  the  itch  for  print, 
Had  nursed  and  chastened  and  developed  it, 


264  KATIIRINA. 

Until  his  hand  was  strong,  and  swept  his  lyre 
With  magic  of  a  master. 

Followed  here 

Sage  comments  on  the  rathe  and  puny  brood 
Of  poet-sucklings,  who  had  rushed  to  type 
Before  their  time — pale  stems  that  spun  their  flowers 
In  the  first  sunshine,  but,  when  Autumn  came, 
Were  fruitless.     It  was  pleasant,  too,  to  see, 
In  such  an  age  of  sentimental  cant, 
One  man  who  dared  to  hold  up  to  the  world 
A  creature  of  his  brain,  and  say  :  "  Look  you! 
This  is  my  thought ;  and  it  shall  stand  alone. 
It  has  no  moral,  bears  no  ministry 
Of  pious  teaching,  and  makes  no  appeal 
To  sufferance  or  suffrage  of  the  muffs 
Who,  in  the  pulpit  or  the  press,  prepare 
The  nation's  pap.     The  fiery-footed  barb 
That  pounds  the  pampas,  and  the  lily-bells 
That  hang  above  the  brooks,  present  the  world 
With  no  apology  for  being  there, 
And  no  attempt  to  justify  themselves 
In  uselessness.     It  is  enough  for  God 
That  they  are  beautiful,  and  hold  his  thought 
In  fine  embodiment ;    and  it  shall  be 
Enough  for  me  that,  in  this  book  of  mine, 
I  have  created  somewhat  that  is  strong 
And  beautiful,  which,  if  it  profit,— well  : 
If  not,  'tis  no  less  strong  and  beautiful, 
And  holds  its  being  by  no  feebler  right." 


Ay,  it  was  glorious  to  find  one  man 

Who  piled  no  packs  upon  his  Pegasus, 

Nor  chained  him  to  a  rag-cart,  loaded  down 


KATIIRINA.  265 

With  moral  frippery,  and  strings  of  bells 
To  call  the  people  to  their  windows. 

Then 

There  followed  extracts,  with  a  change  of  type 
To  mark  the  places  where  the  editor 
Had  caught  a  fancy  hiding,  which  he  feared 
Might  slip  detection  under  slower  eyes 
Than  those  he  carried  ;    or  to  emphasize 
Felicities  of  diction  that  were  stiff 
In  Roman  verticals,  but  grew  divine 
At  the  Italic  angle  ;    then  apology, 
Profoundly  humble,  to  his  patrons  all 
For  quoting  at  such  length,  and  one  to  me 
For  quoting  anything,  and  deep  regrets, 
In  quite  a  general  way,  that  lack  of  space 
Forbade  a  reproduction  of  the  book 
From  title-page  to  tail-piece,  winding  up 
With  counsel  to  all  lovers  of  pure  art, 
Patrons  of  "genius,  all  Americans, 
All  friends  of  cis-Atlantic  literature, 
To  buy  the  book,  and  read  it  for  themselves. 

I  drank  the  whole,  at  one  long,  luscious  draught, 

Tipping  the  tankard  high,  that  I  might  see 

My  features  at  the  bottom,  and  regale 

My  pride,  after  my  palate.     Then  I  tossed 

The  paper  to  my  wife,  and  bade  her  read. 

I  watched  her  while  she  read,  but  failed  to  find 

The  sympathy  of  pleasure  in  her  face 

I  had  expected.     Finishing  at  last, 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and,  fixing  them  on  me, 

Said  thoughtfully  :    "  You  like  this,  I  suspect." 

"  Well,  truly  !  "    I  responded,  "  since  it  seems 
12 


266  KATHRINA. 

To  be  the  first  installment  of  the  wage 
Which  you  suggested  might  come  grudgingly. 
Ay,  it  is  sweet  to  me.     I  know  it  fails 
In  nice  discrimination, — that  it  slurs 
Defects  which  I  perceive  as  well  as  you  ; 
But  it  is  kind,  and  places  in  best  light 
Such  excellences  as  we  both  may  find — 
May  claim,  indeed." 

"  And  yet,  it  is  a  lie, 
Or  what  the  editor  would  call  '  a  puff,' 
From  first  to  last.     The  '  continence,'  my  dear, 
'  Of  genius  ! '     What  of  that  ?     And  what  about 
The  '  manly  effort,'  for  whose  exercise 
He  thanked  you  on  the  world's  behalf?     And  so 
Your  nursing,  chastening  and  developing 
Of  power  ! — Pray  what  of  these  ?  " 

"Oh!    wife!"    I  said, 
"Don't  spoil  it  all!     Be  pitiful,  my  love! 
I  am  a  baby — granted  :    so  I  need 
The  touch  of  tender  hands,  and  something  sweet 
To  keep  me  happy." 

"  Babies  take  a  bath, 

Sometimes,  from  which  the  hand  of  warmest  love 
Filches  the  chill,  and  you  must  have  one  dash," 
She  answered  me,  "  to  close  your  complement. 
The  weakest  spot  in  all  your  book,  he  found 
With  a  quick  instinct  ;    and  on  that  he  spent 
His  sharpest  force  and  finest  rhetoric, 
Shoring  and  bracing  it  on  every  side 
With  bold  assumptions  and  affirmatives, 
To  blind  the  eyes  of  novices,  and  scare 
With  fierce  forestallment  all  the  critic -quills 


KATHRINA.  267 

Now  bristling  for  their  chance.     He  saw  at  once 

Your  poem  had  no  mission,  save,  perhaps, 

The  tickle  of  the  taste,  and  that  it  bore 

Upon  its  glowing  gold  small  food  for  life. 

He  saw  just  there  the  point  to  be  attacked  ; 

And  there  threw  up  his  earth-works,  and  spread  out 

His  thorned  abattis.     He  was  very  kind 

Undoubtedly,  and  very  cunning,  too ; 

For  well  he  knew  that  there  are  earnest  souls 

In  the  broad  world,  who  claim  that  highest  art 

Is  highest  ministry  to  human  need  ; 

And  that  the  artist  has  no  Christian  right 

To  prostitute  his  art  to  selfish  ends, 

Or  make  it  vehicle  alone  of  plums 

For  the  world's  pudding." 


"  These  will  speak  in  time," 
Responded  I  ;    "but  they  have  not  the  ear 
Of  the  broad  world,  I  think.     The  Christian  right 
Of  which  you  speak  is  hardly  recognized 
Among  the  multitude,  or  by  the  guild 
In  which  I  claim  a  place.     The  sectaries 
Who  furnish  folios,  quartos,  magazines, 
To  the  religious  few,  are  limited 
In  influence  ;    and  these,  my  wife,  are  all 
I  have  to  fear  ; — nay,  could  I  but  arouse 
Their  bitter  enmity,  I  might  receive 
Such  superflux  of  praise  and  patronage 
As  would  o'erwhelm  my  sweetly  Christian  wife 
With  shame  and  misery.     But  we  shall  see  ; 
And,  in  the  meantime,  let  us  be  content 
That,  if  one  man  shall  praise  me  overmuch, 
Ten,  at  the  least,  will  fail  to  render  me 
Be^tting  justice." 


268  KATHRINA. 

As  the  days  went  on, 
Reviews  and  notices  came  pouring  in. 
I  was  notorious,  at  least ;  and  fame, 
I  whispered  comfortably  to  myself, 
Is  only  notoriety  turned  gray, 
With  less  of  fire,  if  more  of  steadiness. 
The  adverse  verdicts  were  not  numerous  ; 
And  these  were  rendered,  as  I  fancied  then, 
By  sanctimonious  fools  who  deemed  profane 
All  verse  outside  their  thumb-worn  hymnodies. 
My  book  received  the  rattling  fusilade 
Of  all  the  dailies  :  then  the  artillery 
Of  the  hebdomadals,  whose  noisy  shells, 
Though  timed  by  fuse  to  burst  on  Saturday, 
Exploded  at  the  middle  of  the  week ; 
And  last,  a  hundred-pounder  quarterly 
Gave  it  a  single  missive  from  its  mask 
Of  far  and  dark  impersonality. 
The  smoke  cleared  up,  and  still  my  colors  flew, 
And  still  my  book  stood  proudly  in  the  sun, 
Nor  breached  nor  battered. 

I  had  won  a  place 

That  I  was  sure  of.     All  had  said  of  me 
That  I  was  "brilliant:"  was  not  that  enough? 
The  petty  pesterers,  with  card  and  stamp, 
Who  hunt  for  autographs,  were  after  me, 
In  packages  by  post ;  and  idle  men 
Held  me  at  corners  by  the  button-hole, 
And  introduced  me  to  their  friends.     I  dined 
With  meek-eyed  men,  whose  literary  wives 
Were  dying  all  to  know  me,  as  they  said  ; 
And  the  lyceums,  quick  at  scent  and  sight — 
Watching  the  jungles  for  a  lion — all 
Courted  the  delectation  of  my  roar 


KATHRINA.  269 

Upon  their  platforms,  pledging  to  my  hand 
(With  city  reference  to  stanchest  names), 
Such  honoraria  as  would  have  been 
The  lion's  share  of  profits.     These  were  straws  ; 
But  they  had  surer  fingers  for  the  wind 
Than  withes  or  weathercocks. 

The  book  sold  well. 

My  publisher  (who  published  at  my  risk, 
And  first  put  on  the  airs  of  one  who  stooped 
To  grant  a  favor),  brimmed  and  overflowed 
With  courtesy  ;  and  ere  a  year  was  gone, 
Became  importunate  for  something  more. 
This  was  his  plea  :  I  owed  it  to  myself 
To  write  again.     The  time  to  make  one's  hay 
Is  when  the  sun  shines  :  time  to  write  one's  books 
Is  when  the  public  humor  turns  to  them. 
The  public  would  forget  me  in  a  year, 
And  seek  another  idol ;  or,  meanwhile, 
Another  writer  might  usurp  my  throne, 
And  I  be  hooted  from  my  own  domain 
As  a  pretender.     Then  the  market's  maw 
Was  greedy  for  my  poems.     Just  how  long 
The  appetite  would  last,  he  could  not  tell, 
For  appetite  is  subject  of  caprice, 
And  never  lasts  too  long. 

The  man  was  wise, 

I  plainly  saw,  and  gave  me  the  results 
Of  observation  and  experience. 
I  took  his  hint,  accepting  with  a  pang 
The  truths  that  came  with  it  :    for  instance,  these : — 
That  he  who  speaks  for  praise  of  those  who  live, 
Must  keep  himself  before  his  audience, 
Nor  look  for  "  bravas,"  cheers,  and  cries  of  "hear!" 


2/0  KATHRINA. 

And  clap  of  hands  and  stamp  of  feet,  except 
With  fresh  occasion  ;  that  applause  of  crowds, 
Though  fierce,  runs  never  to  the  chronic  stage; 
That  good  paymasters,  having  paid  for  work 
The  doer's  price,  expect  receipt  in  full 
At  even  date  ;  and  that  if  I  would  keep 
My  place,  as  grand  purveyor  to  the  greed 
For  novelties  of  literary  art, 
My  viands  must  be  sapid,  and  abound 
With  change,  to  wake  or  whet  the  appetite 
I  sought  to  feed. 

I  say  I  took  his  hint. 
Bestowed  in  selfishness,  without  a  doubt, 
Though  in  my  interest.     For  ten  long  years 
It  was  the  basis  of  my  policy. 
I  poured  my  poems  with  redundancy 
Upon  the  world,  and  won  redundant  meed. 
If  I  gave  much,  the  world  was  generous, 
Repaying  more  than  justice:  but,  at  last, 
Tired  and  disgusted,  I  laid  down  my  pen. 
I  knew  my  work  would  not  outlast  my  life, 
That  the  enchantments  which  had  wreathed  themselves 
Around  my  name  were  withering  away, 
With  every  breath  of  fragrance  they  exhaled  ; 
And  that,  too  soon,  the  active  brain  and  hand 
Whose  skill  had  conjured  them,  would  faint  and  fail 
Under  the  press  of  weariness  and  years. 
My  reputation  piqued  me.     None  believed 
That  it  was  in  me  to  write  otherwise 
Than  I  had  written.     All  the  world  had  laughed, 
Or  shaken  its  wise  head,  had  I  essayed 
A  work  beyond  the  round  of  brilliancies 
In  which  my  pen  had  reveled,  and  for  which 
It  gave  such  princely  guerdon.     If  I  looked, 


KATHRINA.  2/1 

Or  came  to  look,  with  measureless  contempt 
On  those  who  gave  with  such  munificence 
The  boon  I  sought,  I  had  provoking  cause. 
I  fooled  them  all  with  patent  worthlessness, 
And  they  insisted  I  should  fool  them  still. 
The  wisdom  of  a  whole  decade  had  failed 
To  teach  them  that  the  thing  my  hand  had  done 
Was  not  worth  doing. 

More  and  worse  than  this  : 
I  found  my  character  and  self-respect 
Eroded  by  the  canker  of  conceit, 
Poisoned  by  jealousy,  and  made  the  prey 
Of  meanest  passions.     Harlequins  in  mask, 
Who  live  upon  the  laughter  of  the  throng 
That  crowds  their  reeking  amphitheaters ; 
Light-footed  dancing-girls,  who  sell  their  grace 
To  gaping  lechers  of  the  pit,  to  win 
That  which  shall  feed  their  shameless  vanity  ; 
The  mimics  of  the  buskin — baser  still, 
The  mimics  of  the  negro — minstrel-bands, 
With  capital  of  corks  and  castanets 
And  threadbare  jests — Ah  !  who  and  what  was  I 
But  brother  of  all  these — in  higher  walk, 
But  brother  in  the  motive  of  my  life, 
In  jealousy,  in  recompense  for  toil, 
And,  last,  in  destiny? 

My  wife  had  caught 

Stray  silver  in  her  hair  in  these  long  years  ; 
And  the  sweet  maiden  springing  from  our  lives 
Had  grown  to  womanhood.     In  my  pursuits, 
Which  drank  my  time  and  my  vitality, 
I  had  neglected  them.     I  worked  at  home, 
But  lived  in  other  scenes,  for  other  lives, 


2/2  KATHRINA. 

Or,  rather,  for  my  own  ;    and  though  my  pride 
Shrank  from  the  deed,  I  had  the  tardy  grace 
To  call  them  to  me,  and  confess  my  shame, 
And  beg  for  their  forgiveness. 

Once  again — 

All  explanations  passed — I  sat  beside 
My  faithful  wife,  and  canvassed  as  of  old 
New  plans  of  life.     I  found  her  still  the  same 
In  purpose  and  in  magnanimity ; 
For  she  dealt  no  upbraidings  and  no  blame ; 
Cast  in  my  teeth  no  old-time  prophecies 
Of  failure  ;   felt  no  triumph  which  rejoiced 
To  mock  me  with  the  words,  "  I  told  you  so." 
Calmly  she  sat,  and  tried,  with  gentlest  speech, 
To  heal  the  bruises  of  my  fall ;    to  wake 
A  better  feeling  in  me  toward  the  world, 
And  soothe  my  morbid  self-contempt. 

The  world, 

She  said,  is  apt  to  take  a  public  man 
At  his  own  estimate,  and  yield  him  place 
According  to  his  choice.     I  had  essayed 
To  please  the  world,  and  gather  in  its  praise  ; 
And,  certainly,  the  world  was  pleased  with  me, 
And  had  not  stinted  me  in  its  return 
Of  plauditory  payment.     As  the  world 
Had  taken  me  according  to  my  rate, 
And  filled  my  wish,  it  had  a  valid  claim 
On  my  good  nature. 

Then,  beyond  all  this, 

The  world  was  not  a  fool.     Those  books  of  mine, 
That  I  had  come  to  look  upon  as  trash, 
Were  not  all  trash.     My  motive  had  been  poor, 


KATHRINA.  2/3 

And  that  had  vitiated  them  for  me  ; 

But  there  was  much  in  them  that  yielded  strength 

To  struggling  souls,  and,  to  the  wounded,  balm. 

Indeed,  she  had  been  helped  by  them,  herself. 

They  were  all  pure  ;    they  made  no  foul  appeal 

To  baseness  and  brutality  ;    they  had 

An  element  of  gentle  chivalry, 

Such  as  must  have  a  place  in  any  man 

Shrinking  with  sensitiveness,  like  myself, 

From  a  fine  reputation,  scorning  it 

For  motive  which  had  won  it. 

Words  like  these, 

From  lips  like  hers,  were  needed  medicine. 
They  clarified  my  weak  and  jaundiced  sight, 
And  helped  to  juster  vision  of  the  world, 
And  of  myself.     But  there  was  no  return 
Of  the  old  greed ;   and  fame,  which  I  had  learned 
To  be  an  entity  quite  different 
From  my  conceit  of  it  in  other  days, 
Was  something  much  too  far  and  nebulous 
To  be  my  star  of  life. 

"  You  have  some  plan  ?  " — 
Statement  and  query  in  same  words,  which  fell 
From  lips  that  sought  to  rehabilitate 
My  will  and  self-respect. 

"  I  have,"  I  said. 

"  Else  you  were  dead,"  responded  she.     "  To  live, 
Men  must  have  plans.     When  these  die  out  of  men 
They  crumble  into  chaos,  or  relapse 
Into  inanity.     Will  you  reveal 
These  plans  of  yours  to  me  ?  " 

12* 


274  KATHRINA. 

"  Ay,  if  I  can," 

I  answered  her  ;    "  but  first  I  must  reveal 
The  base  on  which  I  build  them.     I  have  tried 
To  find  the  occasion  of  my  discontent, 
And  find  it,  as  I  think,  just  here  ;    in  quest 
Of  popularity,  I  have  become 
Untrue  both  to  myself  and  to  my  art. 
I  have  not  dared  to  speak  the  royal  truth 
For  fear  of  censure  ;   I  have  been  a  slave 
To  men's  opinions.     What  is  best  in  me 
Has  been  debauched  by  the  pursuit  of  praise 
As  life's  best  prize.     Conviction,  sentiment, 
All  love  and  hate,  all  sense  of  right  and  wrong, 
I  have  held  in  abeyance,  or  compelled 
To  work  in  menial  subservience 
To  my  grand  purpose.     If  my  sentiment 
Or  my  conviction  were  but  popular, 
It  flowed  in  hearty  numbers  :    otherwise, 
It  slept  in  silence. 


"  Now  as  to  my  art : 
I  find  that  it  has  suffered  like  myself, 
And  suffered  from  same  cause.     My  verse  has  been 
Shaped  evermore  to  meet  the  people's  thought. 
That  which  was  highest,  grandest  in  my  art 
I  have  not  reached,  and  have  not  tried  to  reach. 
I  have  but  touched  the  surfaces  of  things 
That  meet  the  common  vision  ;    and  my  art 
Has  only  aimed  to  clothe  them  gracefully 
With  fancy's  gaudy  fabrics,  or  portray 
Their  patent  beauties  and  deformities. 
Above  the  people  in  my  gift  and  art, 
Both  gift  and  art  have  had  a  downward  trend 
And  both  are  prostitute. 


KATHRINA.  275 

"  Discarding  praise 
As  motive  of  my  labor,  I  confess 
My  sins  against  my  art,  and  so,  henceforth, 
As  to  my  goddess,  give  myself  to  her. 
The  chivalry  which  you  are  pleased  to  note 
In  me  and  works  of  mine,  turns  loyally 
To  her  and  to  her  service.     Nevermore 
Shall  pen  of  mine  demean  itself  by  work 
That  serves  not  first,  and  with  supreme  intent, 
The  art  whose  slave  it  is." 

"  I  understand, 

I  think,  the  basis  of  your  plan,"  she  said  ; 
"  And  e'en  the  plan  itself.     You  now  propose 
To  write  without  remotest  reference 
To  the  world's  wishes,  prejudices,  needs, 
Or  e'en  the  world's  opinions, — quite  content 
If  the  world  find  aught  in  you  to  applaud  ; 
Quite  as  content  if  it  condemn.     With  full 
Expression  of  yourself  in  finest  terms 
And  noblest  forms  of  art,  so  far  as  God 
Has  made  you  masterful,  you  give  yourself 
Up  to  yourself  and  to  your  art.     Is  this 
Fair  statement  of  your  purpose  ?  " 

"  Not  unfair," 
I  answered.     "Tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

"  Suppose,"  she  said,  "  that  all  the  artist-souls 

That  God  has  made  since  time  and  art  began 

Had  acted  on  your  theory  :  suppose 

In  architecture,  picture,  poetry, 

Naught  had  found  utterance  but  works  that  sprang 

To  satisfy  the  worker,  and  reveal 

That  bundle  of  ideas  which,  to  him, 


2/6  KATHRINA. 

Is  constituted  art  ;  but  which,  in  truth, 

Is  figment  of  his  fancy,  or  his  thought, — 

His  creature,  made  his  God — say  where  were  all 

The  temples,  palaces  and  homes  of  men  ; 

The  galleries  that  blaze  with  history, 

Or  bloom  with  landscape,  or  look  down 

With  smile  of  changeless  love  or  loveliness 

Into  the  hearts  of  men  ?     And  where  were  all 

The  poems  that  give  measure  to  their  praise, 

Voice  to  their  aspirations,  forms  of  light 

To  homely  facts  and  features  of  their  life, 

Enveloping  this  plain,  prosaic  world 

In  an  ideal  atmosphere,  in  which 

Fair  angels  come  and  go  ?     All  gifts  of  men 

Were  made  for  use,  and  made  for  highest  use. 

If  highest  use  be  service  of  one's  self, 

And  highest  standard,  one's  embodiment 

Of  dogmas,  theories  and  thoughts  of  art, 

As  art's  identity,  then  are  you  right ; 

But  if  a  higher  use  of  gift  and  art 

Be  service  of  mankind,  and  higher  rule 

God's  regal  truth,  revealed  in  words  or  worlds, 

And  verified  by  life,  then  are  you  wrong." 

"But  art?" — responded  I — "you  do  not  mean 
That  art  is  nothing  but  a  thing  of  thought, 
Or,  less  than  that,  of  fancy  ?     Nay,  I  claim 
That  it  is  somewhat — a  grand  entity — 
An  organism  of  lofty  principles, 
Informed  with  subtlest  life,  and  clothed  upon 
With  usage  and  tradition  of  the  men 
Who,  working  in  those  sunny  provinces 
Where  it  holds  eminent  domain,  have  brought 
To  build  its  temple  and  adorn  its  walls 
The  usufruct  of  countless  lives.     So  far 


KATIIRINA.  277 

Is  art  from  being  creature  of  man's  thought 

That  it  is  subject  of  his  knowledge — staads 

In  mighty  mystery,  and  challenges 

The  study  of  the  world  ;  rules  noblest  minds 

Like  law  or  like  religion  ;  is  a  power 

To  which  the  proudest  artist-spirits  bow 

With  humblest  homage.     Is  astronomy 

The  creature  of  man's  thought  ?     Is  chemistry  ? 

Yet  these  hold  not,  in  this  our  universe, 

A  form  more  definite,  nor  yet  a  place 

In  human  knowledge  more  beyond  dispute, 

Than  art  itself.     To  this  embodiment 

Of  theory — of  dogmas,  if  you  will — 

This  body  aggregate  of  truth  revealed 

In  growing  light  of  ages  to  the  eyes 

Touched  to  perception,  I  devote  my  life." 

"  Nay,  you're  too  fast,"  she  said  :    "  let  alchemy 

And  old  astrology  present  your  thought. 

These  were  somewhat ;    these  were  grand  entities ; 

But  they  went  out  like  candles  in  thin  air 

When  knowledge  came.     The  sciences  are  things 

Of  law,  of  force,  relations,  measurements, 

Affinities  and  combinations,  all 

The  definite,  demonstrable  effects 

Of  first  and  second  causes.     Between  these 

And  men's  opinions,  braced  by  usages, 

The  space  is  wide.     The  thing  which  you  call  art, 

Is  anything  but  definite  in  form, 

Or  fixed  in  law.     It  has  as  many  shapes 

As  worshipers.     The  world  has  many  books, 

Written  by  earnest  men,  about  this  art  ; 

But  having  read  them,  we  are  no  more  wise 

Than  he  whose  observation  of  the  sun 

Is  taken  by  kaleidoscope.     The  more 


2/8  KATHRINA. 

He  sees  in  it,  the  more  he  is  confused. 
The  sun  works,  doubtless,  many  fine  effects 
With  what  he  sees,  but  he  sees  not  the  sun." 

"  But  art  is  art,"  I  said.     "  You'd  cheat  my  sense, 
And  mock  my  reason  too.     Ay,  art  is  art. 
Things  must  have  being  that  have  history." 

Then  she  :  "  Yes,  politics  has  history, 

And  therefore  has  a  being, — has,  in  truth, 

Just  such  a  being  as  I  grant  to  art — 

A  being  of  opinions.     Every  state 

Has  origin  and  ends  of  government 

Peculiarly  its  own,  and  so,  from  these, 

Constructs  its  theory  of  politics, 

And  holds  this  theory  against  the  world ; 

And  holds  it  well.     There  is  no  fixedness 

Or  form  of  politics  for  all  mankind ; 

And  there  is  none  of  art.     Each  artist-soul 

Is  its  own  law  ;  and  he  who  dares  to  bring 

From  work  of  other  man,  to  lay  on  yours, 

His  square  and  compass — thus  declaring  him 

The  pattern  man — and  tells,  by  him,  you  lack 

Just  so  much  here,  or  wander  so  much  there, 

Thereby  confesses  just  how  much  he  lacks 

Of  wisdom  and  plain  sense.     For  every  man 

Has  special  gift  of  power  and  end  of  life. 

No  man  is  great  who  lives  by  other  law 

Than  that  which  wrapped  his  genius  at  his  birth. 

The  Lind  is  great  because  she  is  the  Lind, 

And  not  the  Malibran.     Recorded  art 

Is  yours  to  study — e'en  to  imitate, 

In  education — imitate  or  shun, 

As  the  case  warrants  ;    but  it  has  destroyed, 

Or  toned  to  commonplace,  more  gifts  of  God 


KATIIRINA.  279 

Than  it  has  ever  fanned  to  life  or  fed. 

Who  never  walks  save  where  he  sees  men's  tracks 

Makes  no  discoveries.     Show  me  the  man 

Who,  leaving  God  and  nature  and  himself, 

Sits  at  the  feet  of  masters,  stuffs  his  brain 

With  maxims,  notions,  usages  and  rules, 

And  yields  his  fancy  up  to  leading-strings, 

And  I  shall  see  a  man  who  never  did 

A  deed  worth  doing.     So,  in  the  name  of  art — 

Nay,  in  the  name  of  God — do  no  such  thing 

As  smutch  your  knees  by  bowing  at  a  shrine, 

Whose  doubtful  deity,  in  midst  of  dust, 

Sits  in  the  cast-off  robes  of  devotees, 

And  lives  on  broken  victuals  ! " 

"  Drive,  my  dear  ! 

Drive  on,  and  over  me  !    You're  on  the  old 
High-stepping  horse  to-night  ;    so  give  him  rein, 
For  exercise  is  good,"  I  said,  in  mirth. 
"  You  sit  your  courser  finely.     I  confess 
I'm  very  proud  of  you,  and  too  much  pleased 
With  your  accomplishments  to  check  your  speed. 
Drive  on,  my  love  !    drive  on  !  " 

"  I   thank  you,  sir  ! 

No  one  so  gracious  as  your  grudging  man 
Under  compulsion  !     With  your  kind  consent 
I'll  ride  a  little  further,"  she  replied, — 
"  For  I  enjoy  it  quite  as  much  as  you — 
The  more  because  you've  given  me  little  chance 

In  these  last  years Now,  soberly,  this  art — 

Of  which  we  talk  so  much,  without  the  power 
To  tell  exactly  what  we  understand 
By  the  hack  terfn — suppose  we  take  the  word, 
And  try  to  find  its  meaning.     You  recall 


280  KATIIKINA. 

Old  John  who  dressed  the  borders  in  our  court  : 

You  called  him,  hired  him,  told  him  what  to  do. 

He  and  his  rake  stood  interposed  between 

You  and  your  work.     You  chose  his  skillful  hands, 

Endowing  them  with  pay,  or  pledge  of  pay, 

And  set  him  at  his  labor.     Now  suppose 

Old  John  had  had  a  philosophic  turn 

After  you  left  him,  and  had  thought  like  this  : 

'  I  am  called  here  to  do  a  certain  work — 

My  rake  tells  what  ;    and  he  who  called  me  here 

Has  given  me  the  motive  for  the  job. 

The  work  is  plain.     These  borders  are  to  be 

Leveled  and  cleaned  of  weeds  :    my  hand  and  rake 

Are  fitted  for  the  sen  ice; — this  my  art; 

And  it  is  first  of  all  the  arts.     There's  none 

More  ancient,  useful,  worshipful,  indeed, 

Than  agriculture.     Adam  practiced  it  ; 

Poets  have  sung  its  praises  ;    and  the  great 

Of  every  age  have  loved  and  honored  it. 

This  art  is  greater  than  the  man  I  serve, 

And  greater  than  his  borders.     Therefore  I 

Will  serve  my  art,  and  let  the  borders  lie, 

And  my  employer  whistle.     True  to  that, 

And  to  myself,  it  matters  not  to  me 

What  weeds  may  grow,  or  what  the  master  think 

Of  my  proceeding  !  ' 

"  So,  intent  on  this, 

He  hangs  his  rake  upon  your  garden  wall, 
And  steals  your  clematis,  with  which  to  wind 
The  handle  upward  ;    then  o'erfills  his  hands 
With  roses  and  geraniums,  and  weaves 
Their  beauty  into  laurel,  for  a  crown 
For  his  slim  god,  completing  his  devoir 
By  buttering  the  teeth,  and  kneeling  down 


KATIIRINA.  28l 

In  abject  homage.     Pray,  what  would  you  say, 

At  close  of  day,  when  you  should  go  to  see 

Your  untouched  borders,  and  your  gardener 

At  genuflexion,  with  your  mignonnette 

In  every  button-hole  ?     Remember,  now, 

He  has  been  true  to  art  and  to  himself, 

According  to  his  notion  ;    nor  forget 

To  take  along  a  dollar  for  his  hire, 

Which  he  expects,  of  course  !     What  would  you  say  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't  mind  that:  you've  reached  your  'fifthly'  now, 
And  here  the  '  application '  comes,"  I  said. 

"  I  think,"  responded  she,  with  an  arch  smile, 

"  The  application's  needless  :    but  you  men 

Are  so  obtuse,  when  will  is  in  the  way, 

That  I  will  do  your  bidding.     Every  gift 

That  God  bestows  on  men  holds  in  itself 

The  secret  of  its  office,  like  the  rake 

The  gardener  wields.     The  rake  was  made  to  till — 

Was  fashioned,  head  and  handle,  for  just  that; 

And  if,  by  grace  of  God,  you  hold  a  gift 

So  fashioned  and  adapted,  that  it  stands 

In  like  relation  of  supremest  use 

To  life  of  men,  the  office  of  your  gift 

Has  perfect  definition.     Gift  like  this 

Is  yours,  my  husband.     In  your  facile  hands 

God  placed  it  for  the  service  of  himself, 

In  service  of  your  kind.     Taking  this  gift, 

And  using  it  for  God  and  for  the  world, 

In  your  own  way,  and  in  your  own  best  way  ; 

Seeking  for  light  and  knowledge  everywhere 

To  guide  your  careful  hand  ;    and  opening  wide 

To  spiritual  influx  all  your  soul, 

That  so  your  master  may  breathe  into  you, 


282  KATIIRINA. 

And  breathe  his  great  life  through  you,  in  such  forms 

Of  pure  presentment  as  he  gives  you  skill 

To  build  withal — that's  all  of  art — for  you. 

Art  is  an  instrument,  and  not  an  end — 

A  servant,  not  a  master,  nor  a  God 

To  be  bowed  down  to.     Shall  we  worship  rakes  ? 

Honor  of  art,  by  him  whose  work  is  art, 

Is  a  fine  passion  ;    but  he  honors  most 

Whose  use  and  end  are  best." 

"  Use  !    Use  !    Use  !  " 
I  cried  impatiently  ; — "  nothing  but  use  ! 
As  if  God  never  made  a  violet, 
Or  hung  a  harebell,  or  in  kindling  gold 
Garnished  a  sunset,  or  upreared  the  arch 
Of  a  bright  rainbow,  or  endowed  a  world — 
A  universe,  indeed — stars,  firmament, 
The  vastitudes  of  forest  and  of  sea, 
Swift  brooks  and  sweeping  rivers,  virid  meads 
And  fluff  of  breezy  hills — with  tints  that  range 
The  scale  o*f  spectral  beauty,  till  they  leave 
No  glint  or  glory  of  the  changeful  light 
Without  a  revelation  !     Is  this  use — 
I  beg  your  pardon,  love  :    you  say  '  this  art  ' — 
The  sum  and  end  of  art  ?     If  it  be  so, 
Then  God's  no  artist.     Are  the  crystal  brooks 
Sweeter  for  singing  to  the  thirsty  brutes 
That  dip  their  beaded  muzzles  in  the  foam  ? 
Burns  the  tree  better  that  its  leaves  are  green  ? 
Sleeps  the  sun  sounder  under  canopy 
Of  gold  or  rose  ?  " 

"  Yet  beauty  has  its  use," 
Responded  she.     "  Whatever  elevates, 
Inspires,  refreshes,  any  human  soul, 


KATHRINA.  283 

Is  useful  to  that  soul.     Beauty  has  use 

For  you  and  me.     The  dainty  violet 

Blooms  in  our  thought,  and  sheds  its  fragrance  there  ; 

And  we  are  gainers  through  its  ministry. 

All  God's  great  values  wear  the  drapery 

That  most  becomes  them.     Beauty  may,  in  truth, 

Be  incident  of  art  and  not  be  end — 

Its  form,  condition,  features,  dress,  and  still 

The  humblest  value  of  the  things  of  art. 

This  truth  obtains  in  all  God's  artistry. 

Does  God  make  beauty  for  himself,  alone  ? 

He  is,  and  holds,  all  beauty.     Has  he  need 

To  kindle  rushes  that  he  may  behold 

The  glory  of  his  thoughts  ?  or  need  to  use 

His  thoughts  as  plasms  for  the  amorphous  clay 

That  he  may  study  models  ?     For  an  end 

Outside  himself,  he  ever  speaks  himself; 

And  end,  with  him,  is  use." 

"  Well,  I  confess 

There's  truth  in  what  you  utter,"  I  replied  ; — 
"  A  modicum  of  truth,  at  least  ;  and  still 
There's  something  more  which  this  our  subtle  talk 
Has  failed  to  give  us.     I  will  not  affirm 
That  art,  recorded  in  its  thousand  forms, 
And  clothed  with  usages,  traditions,  rules, — 
The  thing  of  history — the  mighty  pile 
Of  drift  that  sweep  of  ages  has  brought  down 
To  heap  the  puzzled  present — is  the  sum 
And  substance  of  all  art.     I  will  not  claim — 
Nay,  mark  me  now — I  will  not  even  claim 
That  beauty  is  art's  end,  or  has  its  end 
Within  itself.     Our  tedious  colloquy 
Has  cleared  away  the  rubbish  from  my  thought, 
And  given  me  cleaner  vision.     I  can  see 


284  KATHRINA. 

Before,  around  me,  underneath,  above, 
The  great  unrealized  ;    and  while  I  bow 
To  the  traditions  and  the  things  of  art, 
And  hold  my  theories,  I  find  myself 
Inspired  supremely  by  the  Possible 
That  calls  for  revelation — by  the  forms 
That  sleep  imprisoned  in  the  snowy  arms 
Of  still  unquarried  truth,  or  stretch  their  hands 
At  sound  of  sledge  and  drill  and  booming  fire, 
Imploring  for  release.     I    turn  from  men, 
And  stretch  my  hands  toward  these.     I  feel — I  know- 
That  there  are  mighty  myriads  waiting  there, 
And  listening  for  my  steps.     Suppose  my  age 
Should  fail  to  give  them  welcome  :    ay,  suppose 
They  may  not  help  a  man  to  coin  a  dime 
Or  cook  a  dinner  :   they  will  fare  as  well 
As  much  of  God's  truth  fares,   though  clothed  in  forms 
Divinely  chosen.     Does  God  ever  stint 
His  utterance  because  no  creature  hears  ? 
Is  it  a  grand  and  goodly  thing,  to  spend 
Brave  life  and  precious  treasure  in  a  search 
For  palpitating  water  at  the  pole, 
That  so  the  sum  of  knowledge  may  be  swelled, 
Though  pearls  are  not  increased ;    and  something  less 
To  probe  the  Possible  in  art,  or  sit 
Through  months  of  dreary  dark  to  catch  a  glimpse 
Of  the  live  truth  that  quivers  with  the  jar 
Of  movement  at  its  axle  ?     Is  it  good 
To  garner  gain  beyond  the  present  need, 
Won  by  excursive  commerce  in  all  seas  ; 
And  something  less  to  pile  redundantly 
The  spoil  of  thought  ?  " 

"These  latest  words  of  yours,'! 
She  answered  musingly,  "  impress  me  much  ; 


KATIIRINA.  285 

And  yet,  I  think  I  see  where  they  will  lead, 

Or,  rather,  fail  to  lead.     Your  fantasy 

Is  beautiful  but  vague.     The  Possible 

Is  a  vast  ocean,  from  which  one  poor  soul, 

With  its  slight  oars,  can  float  but  flimsy  freight  ; 

Yet  I  would  help  your  courage,  for  I  see 

Where  your  sole  motive  lies.     Go  on,  and  prove 

Whether  your  scheme  or  mine  holds  more  of  good ; 

And  take  my  blessing  with  you." 

Then  she  rose, 

And  kissed  my  forehead.     Looking  in  her  face, 
By  the  sharp  light  that  touched  her,  I  was  thrilled 
By  her  flushed  cheeks  and  strangely  lustrous  eyes. 
She  spoke  not  ;    but  I  heard  the  sigh  she  breathed — 
The  long-drawn,  weary  sigh — as  she  retired ; 
And  then  the  Possible,  which  had  inspired 
So  wondrously  my  hope,  drooped  low  around, 
And  filled  me  with  foreboding. 

Had  her  life 

Been  chilled  by  my  neglect  ?     Was  it  on  wane  ? 
Could  she  be  lost  to  me  ?     Oh !    then  I  felt, 
As  I  had  never  felt  before,  how  mean 
Beside  one  true  affection  is  the  best 
Of  all  earth's  prizes,  and  how  little  worth 
The  world  would  be  without  her  love— herself ! 


But  sleep  refreshed  her,  and  next  morn  she  sat 
At  our  bright  board,  in  her  accustomed  place  ; 
And  sunlight  was  not  sweeter  than  her  smile, 
Or  cheerfuller.     My  quick  fears  died  away  ; 
And  though  I  saw  that  she  had  lost  the  fire 
Of  her  young  life,  I  comforted  myself 


286  KATIIRINA. 

With  thinking  that  it  was  the  same  with  me — 
The  sure  result  of  years. 

My  time  I  gave 

To  my  new  passion,  rioting  at  large 
In  the  fresh  realm  of  fancy  and  of  thought 
To  which  the  passion  bore  me,  and  from  which 
I  strove  to  gather  for  embodiment 
Material  of  art. 

The  more  T  dreamed, 

The  broader  grew  my  dream.     The  further  on 
My  footsteps  pushed,  the  brighter  grew  the  light ; 
Till,  half  in  terror,  half  in  reverence, 
I  learned  that  I  had  broached  the  Infinite  ! 
I  had  not  thought  my  Possible  could  bear 
Such  name  as  this,  or  wear  such  attribute  ; 
And  shrank  befitting  distance  from  the  front 
Of  awful  secrets,  hid  in  awful  flame, 
That  scorched  and  scared  me. 

So,  more  humble  grown, 
And  less  adventurous,  I  chose,  at  last, 
My  theme  and  vehicle  of  song,  and  wrote. 
My  faculties,  grown  strong  and  keen  by  use, 
Bent  to  their  task  with  earnest  faithfulness, 
And  glowed  with  high  endeavor.     All  of  power 
I  had  within  me  flowed  into  my  hand  ; 
And  learning,  language — all  my  life's  resource — 
Lay  close  around  my  enterprise,  and  poured 
Their  hoarded  wealth  of  imagery  and  words 
Faster  than  I  could  use  it.     For  long  weeks, 
My  ardent  labor  crowded  all  my  days, 
Invaded  sleep,  and  haunted  e'en  my  dreams  : 
And  then  the  work  was  done. 


KATIIRTNA.  287 

I  left  it  there, 

And  sought  for  recreative  rest  in  scenes 
That  once  had  charmed  me— in  society 
Where  I  was  welcome  :  but  the  common  talk 
Of  daily  news — of  politics  and  trade — 
Was  senseless  as  the  chatter  of  the  jays 
In  autumn  forests.     No  refreshing  balm 
Came  to  me  in  the  sympathy  of  men. 
In  my  retirement,  I  had  left  the  world 
To  go  its  way  ;    and  it  had  gone  its  way, 
And  left  me  hopelessly. 

I  told  my  wife 

Of  my  dissatisfaction  and  disgust, 
But  found  small  comfort  in  her  words.     She  said : 
"  The  world  is  wide,  and  woman's  vision  short ; 
But  I  have  never  seen  a  man  who  turned 
His  efforts  from  his  kind,  and  failed  to  spoil 
All  men  for  him — himself,  indeed,  for  them  ; 
And  he  who  gives  nor  sympathy  nor  aid 
To  the  poor  race  from  which  he  seeks  such  boon 
Must  be  rejoiced  if  it  be  generous  ; 
Content,  if  it  be  just.     Society 
Is  a  grand  scheme  of  service  and  return. 
We  give  and  take  ;    and  he  who  gives  the  most, 
In  ways  directcst,  wins  the  best  reward." 

By  purpose,   I  closed  eyes  upon  my  work 

For  many  weeks,  resisting  every  day 

The  impulse  to  review  the  glowing  dream 

My  fancy  had  engendered  :    for  1  wished 

To  go  with  faculty  and  fancy  cooled 

To  its  perusal.     I  had  strong  desire, 

So  far  as  in  me  lay,  to  see  the  work 

With  the  world's  eyes,  for  reasons — ah  !    I  shrink 


288  KATHRINA. 

From  writing  them !     All  men  are  sometimes  weak, 
And  some  are  inconsistent  with  their  wills. 
If  I  were  one  of  these,  think  not  I  failed 
To  justify  my  weakness  to  myself, 
In  ways  that  saved  my  pride. 


Yet  this  was  true  : 

I  had  an  honest  wish  to  learn  how  far 
My  work  of  heat  had  power  to  re-inspire 
The  soul  that  wrought  it,  and  how  well  my  verse 
Had  clothed  and  kept  the  creature  of  my  thought ; 
For  memory  still  retained  the  loveliness 
That  filled  the  fresh  conceit. 


When,  in  good  time, 

Rest  and  diversion  had  performed  their  work, 
And  the  long  fever  of  my  brain  was  gone, 
I  broached  my  feast,  first  making  fast  my  door, 
That  so  no  eye  should  mark  my  greedy  joy 
Or  my  grimaces, — doubtful  of  the  fate 
That  waited  expectation. 


It  were  vain 

To  try,  in  these  tame  words,  to  paint  the  pang, 
The  faintness  and  the  chill,  which  overwhelmed 
My  disappointed  heart.     My  welded  thoughts 
Which,  in  their  whitest  heat,  had  bent  and  bound 
My  language  to  themselves,  imparting  grace 
To  stiffest  words,  and  meanings  fresh  and  fine 
To  simplest  phrases,  interfusing  all 
With  their  own  ardency,  and  shining  through 
With  smoothly  rounded  beauty,  lay  in  heaps 


KATHR1NA.  289 

Of  cold,  unmeaning  ugliness.     My  words 
Had  shrunk  to  old  proportions,  and  stood  out 
In  hard,  stiff  angles,  challenging  a  guess 
Of  whaf  they  covered. 


Meaningless  to  me, 

Who  knew  the  meaning  that  had  once  informed 
Its  faithless  numbers,  what  way  could  I  hope 
That,  to  my  own,  or  any  future  age, 
My  work  should  speak  its  full  significance  ? 
My  latest  child,  begot  in  manly  joy, 
Conceived  in  purity,  and  born  in  toil, 
Lay  dead  before  me, — dead,  and  in  the  shroud 
My  hopeful  hands  had  woven  and  bedecked 
To  be  its  chrisom. 


Then  the  first  I  learned 

Where  language  finds  its  bound — learned  that  beyond 
The  range  of  human  commerce,  save  by  force, 
It  never  moves,  nor  lingers  in  the  realm 
It  thus  invades,  a  moment,  if  the  voice 
Of  human  commerce  speak  not  the  demand  ; — 
That  language  is  a  thing  of  use  ; — that  thought 
Which  seeks  a  revelation,  first  must  seek 
Adjustment  in  the  scale  of  human  need, 
Or  find  no  fitting  vehicle. 


And  more  : 

That  the  great  Possible  which  lies  outside 
The  range  of  commerce  is  identical 
With  the  stupendous  Infinite  of  God, 
Which  only  comes  in  glimpses,  or  in  hints 
13 


290  KATIIRINA. 

Of  vague  significance,  so  dim,  so  vast, 
That  subtlest,  most  prehensile  language,  shrinks 
From  plucking  of  its  robes,  the  while  they  sweep 
The  perfumed  air  ! 

I  closed  my  manuscript, 

And  locked  it  in  my  desk.     Then  stealing  forth, 
I  sought  the  bustle  of  the  street,  to  drown 
In  the  great  roar  of  careless  toil,  the  pain 
That  brings  despair.     My  last  resource  was  gone  ; 
And  as  I  brooded  o'er  the  awful  blank 
Of  hopeless  life  that  waited  for  my  steps, 
A  fear  which  I  had  feared  to  entertain 
Found  entrance  to  my  hea.rtj  and  held  it  still, 
Almost  to  bursting. 

Not  alone  my  life 

Was  sliding  from  me  ;    for  my  better  life, 
My  pearl  of  price,  the  jewel  in  my  crown, 
My  wife  Kathrina,  growing  lovelier 
With  every  passing  day,  arose  each  morn 
From  wasting  dreams  to  paler  loveliness, 
And  sank  in  growing  weariness  each  night, 
And  hotter  hectic,  to  her  welcome  bed. 
Her  bed  !     The  sweet,  the  precious  nuptial  bed ! 
Bed  sanctified  by  love  !     Bed  blest  of  God 
With  fruit  immortal  !     Bed  too  soon  to  be 
Crowned  with  the  glory  of  a  Christian  death ! 
Ah  God  !     How  it  brought  back  the  agony, 
And  the  rebellious  hate  of  other  years — 
The  hopeless  struggle  of  my  will  with  Him 
Whose  will  is  law ! 

Thus  torn  with  mingled  thoughts 
Of  fear,  despair  and  spite,  I  wore  away    . 


KATIIRINA.  291 

Miles  of  wild  wandering  about  the  streets, 
Till  weariness  at  last  compelled  my  feet 
To  drag  me  to  my  home. 

Before  my  door 

Stood  the  familiar  chair  of  one  whose  call 
Was  ominous  of  ill.     My  heart  grew  sick 
With  flutter  of  foreboding  and  foredoom  ; 
But  in  swift  silence  I  flew  up  the  steps, 
And,  blind  with  stifled  frenzy,  reached  the  side 
Of  my  poor  wife.     She  smiled  at  seeing  me, 
But  I  could  only  kneel,  and  bathe  her  hands 
With  tears  and  kisses.     In  her  gentle  breast — 
True  home  of  love,  and  love  and  home  to  me — 
The  blood  had  burst  its  walls,  and  flowed  in  flame 
From  lips  it  left  in  ashes. 

In  her  smile 

Of  perfect  trustfulness,  I  caught  first  glimpse 
Of  that  aureola  of  fadeless  light 
Which  spans  my  lonely  couch,  and  kindles  hope 
That  when  my  time  shall  come  to  follow  her, 
My  spirit  may  go  out,  enwreathed  and  wrapped 
By  the  familiar  glory,  which  to-night 
Shall  brood  o'er  all  my  vigils  and  my  dreams ! 


DESPAIR. 


AH  !   what  is  so  dead  as  a  perished  delight ! 

Or  a  passion  outlived  !    or  a  scheme  overthrown  ! 
Save  the  bankrupt  heart  it  has  left  in  its  flight, 

Still  as  quick  as  the  eye,  but  as  cold  as  a  stone  ! 

The  honey-bee  hoards  for  its  winter-long  need, 
The  treasure  it  gathers  in  joy  from  the  flowers  ; 

And  drinks  in  each  sip  of  its  silvery  mead 

The  flavor  and  flush  of  the  sweet  summer  hours. 

But  a  pleasure  expires  at  its  earliest  breath: 
No  labor  can  hoard  it,  no  cunning  can  save  ; 

For  the  song  of  its  life  is  the  sigh  of  its  death, 

And  the  sense  it  has  thrilled  is  its  shroud  and  its  grave. 

Ah !    what  is  our  love,  with  its  tincture  of  lust, 

And  its  pleasure  that  pains  us  and  pain  that  endears, 

But  joy  in  an  armful  of  beautiful  dust 

That  crumbles,  and  flies  on  the  wings  of  the  years  ? 

And  what  is  ambition  for  glory  and  power, 
But  desire  to  be  reckoned  the  uppermost  fool 

Of  a  million  of  fools,  for  a  pitiful  hour, 

And  be  cursed  for  a  tyrant,  or  kicked  for  a  tool? 


294  KATHRINA. 

Nay,  what  is  the  noblest  that  art  can  achieve, 
But  to  conjure  a  vision  of  light  to  the  eyes, 

That  will  pale  ere  we  paint  it,  and  pall  ere  we  leave 
On  the  heart  it  betrays  and  the  hand  it  defies  ? 

We  love,  and  we  long  with  an  infinite  greed 

For  a  love  that  will  fill  our  deep  longing,  in  vain  ; 

The  cup  that  we  drink  of  is  pleasant,  indeed, 
Yet  it  holds  but  a  drop  of  the  heavenly  rain 

We  plan  for  our  powers  the  divinest  we  can ; 

We  do  with  our  powers  the  supremest  we  may  ; 
And,  winning  or  losing,  for  labor  and  plan 

The  best  that  we  garner  is — rest  and  decay  ! 

Content — satisfaction — who  wins  them  ?     Look  down  ! 

They    are    held   without    thought    by    the   dolts    and  the 

drones  : 
'Tis  the  slave  who  in  carelessness  carries  the  crown  ; 

And  the  hovels  have  kinglier  men  than  the  thrones. 

The  maid  sings  of  love  to  the  hum  of  her  wheel  ; 

And  her  lover  responds  as  he  follows  his  team  ; 
They  wed,  and  their  children  come  quickly  to  seal 

In  fulfillment  the  pledge  of  their  loftiest  dream. 

With  humblest  ambitions  and  homeliest  fare, 
Contented,  though  toiling,  they  travel  abreast, 

Till  the  kind  hand  of  death  lifts  their  burden  of  care, 
And  they  sink,  in  the  faith  of  their  fathers,  to  rest. 

Did  I  beg  to  be  born  ?     Did  I  seek  to  exist  ? 

Did  I  bargain  for  promptings  to  loftier  gains  ? 
Did  I  ask  for  a  brain,  with  contempt  of  the  fist 

That  could  win  a  reward  for  its  labor  and  pains  ? 


KATIIRINA.  295 

Was  it  kind — the  strong  promise  that  girded  my  youth  ? 

Was  it  good— the  endowment  of  motive  and  skill? 
Was  it  well  to  succeed,  when  success  was,  in  truth, 

But  the  saddest  of  failure  ?     Make  answer,  who  will ! 

Do  I  rave  without  reason?     Why,  look  you,  I  pray! 

I  have  won  all  I  sought  of  the  highest  and  best ; 
But  it  brings  me  no  guerdon  ;  and  hopeless,  to-day, 

I  am  poorer  than  when  I  set  out  on  the  quest. 

Oh  !  emptiness  !  Life,  what  art  thou  but  a  lie, 

Which  I  greeted  and  honored  with  hopefulest  trust  ? 

Bah  !  the  beautiful  apples  that  tempted  my  eye 
Break  dead  on  my  tongue  into  ashes  and  dust ! 

"A  Father  who  loves  all  the  children  of  men"? 

"A  future  to  fill  all  these  bottomless  gaps"? 
But  one  life  has  failed  :    can  I  fasten  again 

With  my  faith  and  my  hope  to  a  specious  Perhaps  ? 

O  !    man  who  begot  me  !     O  !   woman  who  bore  ! 

Why,  why  did  you  call  me  to  being  and  breath  ? 
With  ruin  behind  me,  and  darkness  before, 

I  have  nothing  to  long  for,  or  live  for,  but  death ! 


PART   IV. 

CONSUMMATION. 

A  GUEST  was  in  my  house — a  guest  unhid — • 

Who  stayed  without  a  welcome  from  his  host, — 

So  loathed  and  hated,  on  such  errand  bent, 

And  armed  with  such  resistless  power  of  ill, 

I  dared  not  look  him  in  the  face.     I  heard 

His  tireless  footsteps  in  the  lonely  halls, 

In  the  chill  hours  of  night ;   and,  in  the  day, 

They  climbed  the  stairs,  or  loitered  through  the  roome 

With  lawless  freedom.     Ever  when  I  turned 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him.     His  shadow  stalked 

Between  me  and  the  light,  and  fled  before 

My  restless  feet,  or  followed  close  behind. 

Whene'er  I  bent  above  the  couch  that  held 

My  fading  wife,  though  looking  not,  I  knew 

That  he  was  bending  from  the  other  side, 

And  mocking  me. 

Familiar  grown,  at  last, 

He  came  more  closely — came  and  sat  with  me 
Through  hours  of  revery  ;    or,  as  I  paced 
My  dimly-lighted  room,  slipped  his  lank  arm 
Through  mine,  and  whispered  in  my  shrinking  ear 
Such  fearful  words  as  made  me  sick  and  cold. 
13* 


298  KATHRINA. 

He  took  the  vacant  station  at  my  board, 
Sitting  where  she  had  sat,  and  mixed  my  cup 
With  poisoned  waters,  saying  in  low  tones 
That  none  but  I  could  hear  : 

"  This  little  room, 

Where  you  have  breakfasted  and  dined  and  supped, 
And  laughed  and  chatted  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Will  be  a  lonely  place  when  we  are  gone. 
Those  roses  at  the  window,  that  were  wont 
To  bloom  so  freely  with  the  lady's  care, 
Already  miss  her  touch.     That  ivy-vine 
Has  grown  a  yard  since  it  was  tied,  and  needs 
A  training  hand." 

Rising  with  bitter  tears 
To  flee  his  presence,  he  arose  with  me, 
And  wandered  through  the  rooms. 

"  This  casket  here"— 

I  heard  him  say  :    "  Suppose  we  loose  the  clasp. 
These  are  her  jewels — pretty  gifts  of  yours. 
There  is  a  diamond  :    there  a  string  of  pearls. 
That  paly  opal  holds  a  mellowed  fire 
Which  minds  me  of  the  mistress,  whose  bright  soul 
Glows  through  the  lucent  whiteness  of  her  face 
With  lambent  flicker.     These  are  legacies  : 
She  will  not  wear  them  more.     Her  taste  and  mine 
Are  one  in  this,  that  both  of  us  love  flowers. 
Ay,  she  shall  have  them,  too,  some  pleasant  day, 
When  she  goes  forth  with  me  ! 

"  So  ?    what  is  this  ? 

Her  wardrobe  !     Let  the  door  be  opened  wide ! 
This  musk,  so  blent  with  scent  of  violets, 


KATHRINA.  299 

Revives  one.     You  remember  when  she  wore 
That  lavender  ? — a  very  pretty  silk  ! 
Here  is  a  moire  antique.     Ah !    yes — I  see  ! 
You  did  not  like  her  in  it.     'Twas  too  old, 
And  too  suggestive  of  the  dowager. 
There  is  your  favorite — that  glossy  blue — 
The  sweet  tint  stolen  from  the  skies  of  June — 
But  she  is  done  with  it.     I  wonder  who 
Will  wear  it,  when  your  grief  shall  find  a  pause ! 
Your  daughter — possibly  ?  .  .   .  You  shiver,  sir  ! 
Is  it  the  velvet  ?     Like  a  pall,  you  think ! 
Well,  close  the  door  ! 

"  Those  slippers  on  the  rug  : 

The  time  will  come  when  you  will  kiss  their  soles 
For  the  dear  life  that  pressed  them.     Their  rosettes 
Will  be  more  redolent  than  roses  then. 
You  did  not  know  how  much  you  loved  your  wife  ? 
I  thought  so ! 

"  This  way  !     Let  us  take  our  stand 
Beside  her  bed.     Not  quite  so  beautiful 
To  your  fond  eyes  as  when  she  was  a  bride, 
Though  still  a  lovely  woman  !     Seems  it  strange 
That  she  is  yours  no  longer  ? — that  her  hand 
Is  given  to  another — to  the  one 
For  whom  she  has  been  waiting  all  her  life, 
And  ready  all  her  life  ?     Your  power  is  gone 
To  punish  rivals.     There  you  stand  and  weep, 
But  dare  not  lift  a  finger,  while  with  smiles 
And  kindly  welcome  she  extends  her  hands 
To  greet  her  long-expected  friend.     She  knows 
Where  I  will  take  her — to  what  city  of  God, 
What  palace  there,  and  what  companionship. 
She  knows  what  robes  will  drape  her  loveliness, 


300  KATHRINA. 

What  flowers  bedeck  her  hair,  and  rise  and  fall 

Upon  the  pulses  of  her  happy  breast. 

And  you,  poor  man  !    with  all  your  jealous  pride, 

Have  learned  that  she  would  turn  again  to  you, 

And  to  your  food  and  furniture  of  life, 

With  disappointment. 

"  Ay,  she  pities  you — 

Loves  you,  indeed  ;    but  there  is  One  she  loves 
With  holier  passion,  and  with  more  entire 
And  gladder  self-surrender.     She  will  go — 
You  know  that  she  will  go — and  go  with  joy ; 
And  you  begin  to  see  how  poor  and  mean, 
When  placed  beside  her  joy,  are  all  your  gifts, 
And  all  that  you  have  won  by  them. 

"  Poor  man  ! 

Weeping  again !     Well,  if  it  comfort  you, 
Rain  your  salt  tears  upon  her  waxen  hands, 
And  kiss  them  dry  at  leisure  !     Press  her  lips, 
Hot  with  the  hectic !     Lay  your  cold,  wet  cheek 
Against  the  burning  scarlet  of  her  own  : 
Only  remember  that  she  is  not  yours, 
And  that  your  paroxysms  of  grief  and  tears 
Are  painful  to  her." 

Ah !    to  wait  for  death  1 
To  see  one's  idol  with  the  signature 
Of  the  Destroyer  stamped  upon  her  brow, 
And  know  that  she  is  doomed,  beyond  all  hope  ; 
To  watch  her  while  she  fades  ;    to  see  the  form 
That  once  was  Beauty's  own  become  a  corpse 
In  all  but  breathing,  and  to  meet  her  eyes 
A  hundred  times  a  day — while  the  heart  bleeds— 
WTith  smiles  of  smooth  dissembling,  and  with  words 


KATIIRINA.  301 

Cheerful  as  morning,  and  to  do  all  this 

Through  weeks  and  weary  months,  till  one  half  longs 

To  see  the  spell  dissolved,  and  feel  the  worst 

That  death  can  do  :    can  there  be  misery 

Sadder  than  this  ? 

My  time  I  passed  alone, 
And  at  the  bedside  of  my  dying  wife. 
She  talked  of  death  as  children  talk  of  sleep, 
When — a  forgetful  blank — it  lies  between 
Their  glad  impatience  and  a  holiday. 
The  morrow — ah  !    the  morrow  !     That  was  name 
For  hope  all  realized,  for  work  all  done, 
For  pain  all  passed,  for  life  and  strength  renewed, 
For  fruitage  of  endeavor,  for  repose, 
For  heaven  ! 

• 

What  would  the  morrow  bring  to  me  ? 

The  morrow — ah  !    the  morrow !     It  was  blank — 

Nay,  blank  and  black  with  gloom  of  clouds  and  night. 

Never  before  had  I  so  realized 

My  helplessness.     I  could  not  find  relief 

In  love  or  labor.     I  could  only  sit, 

And  gaze  against  a  wall,  without  the  power 

To  pierce  or  climb.     My  pride  of  life  was  gone, 

My  spirit  broken,  and  my  strife  with  God 

Was  finished.     If  I  could  not  look  before, 

I  dared  not  look  above  ;  and  so,  whene'er 

I  could  forget  the  present,  I  went  back 

Upon  the  past. 

One  soft  June  day,  my  thoughts, 
Touched  by  some  song  of  bird,  or  glimpse  of  green, 
Returned  to  life's  bright  morning,  and  the  Junes 


302  KATHRINA. 

That  flooded  with  their  wealth  of  life  and  song 

The  valley  of  my  birth.     Again  I  walked  the  meads, 

Brilliant  with  beaded  grass,  and  heard  the  shrill, 

Sweet  jargon  of  the  meadow-birds.     Again 

I  trod  the  forest  paths,  in  shade  of  trees 

With  foliage  so  tender  that  the  sun 

Shot  through  the  soft,  thin  leaves  its  virid  sheen, 

As  through  the  emerald  waters  of  the  sea. 

The  scarlet  tanager — a  flake  of  fire, 

Blown  from  the  tropic  heats  upon  the  breath 

That  brought  the  summer — caught  upon  a  twig, 

Or  quenched  its  glow  in  some  remote  recess. 

The  springing  ferns  unfolded  at  my  feet 

Their  tan-brown  scrolls,  the  tiny  star-flower  shone 

Among  its  leaves  ;   the  insects  filled  the  air 

With  a  monotonous,  reedy  resonance 

Of  whir  and  hum,  and  I  sat  down  again 

Upon  a  bank,  to  gather  violets. 

From  dreams  of  retrospective  joy  I  woke 

At  last,  to  the  quick  tinkle  of  a  bell. 

My  wife  had  touched  it.     She  had  been  asleep, 

And,  waking,  called  me  to  her  side.     The  note, 

Familiar  as  the  murmur  of  her  voice, 

For  the  first  time  was  strange.     Another  bell, 

With  other  music,  rang  adown  the  years 

That  lay  between  me  and  the  golden  day 

When,  up  the  mountain-path,  I  followed  far 

The  lamb  that  bore  it.     All  the  scene  came  back 

In  a  broad  flash  ;    and  with  it  came  the  same 

Strange  apprehension  of  a  mighty  change — 

A  vague  prevision  of  transition,  born 

Of  what,  I  knew  not  ;    on  what  errand  sent, 

I  could  not  guess. 


•AGAIN   I    TROD   THE   I-OREST   PATHS." 


KATHRINA.  303 

I  rose  upon  my  feet, 

Responsive  to  the  summons,  when  I  heard, 
Repeated  in  the  ear  of  memory, 
The  words  my  mother  spoke  to  me  that  day  : 

"  My  Paul  has  climbed  the  noblest  mountain-hight 

In  all  his  little  world,  and  gazed  on  scenes 

As  beautiful  as  rest  beneath  the  sun. 

I  trust  he  will  remember  all  his  life 

That,  to  his  best  achievement,  and  the  spot 

Closest  to  heaven  his  youthful  feet  have  trod, 

He  has  been  guided  by  a  guileless  lamb. 

It  is  an  omen  which  his  mother's  heart 

Will  treasure  with  her  jewels." 

Had  her  tongue 

Been  moved  to  prophecy  ?     Omen  of  what  ? — 
Of  a  new  hight  of  life  to  be  achieved 
By  my  lamb's  leading  ?      Ay,  it  seemed  like  this ! 
An  answer  to  a  thousand  prayers,  up-breathed 
By  her  whom  I  had  lost,  repeated  long 
By  her  whom  I  was  losing  ?     Was  it  this  ? 
Thus  charged  with  premonition,  when  I  stepped 
Into  the  shaded  room,  my  cheeks  were  pale, 
And  every  nerve  was  quivering  with  the  stress 
Of  uncontrolled  emotion.     Ah  !    my  lamb  ! 
How  white  !     How  innocent !     My  lamb,  my  lamb  ! 
Even  the  scarlet  ribbon  which  adorned 
The  lambkin  of  my  chase  was  at  her  throat, 
Repeated  in  a  bright  geranium -flower  ! 

"  Loop  up  the  curtains,  love  !     Let  in  the  light!" 
The  words  came  strong  and  sweet,  as  if  the  life 
From  which  they  breathed  were  at  its  tidal  flood. 
"Oh!    blessed  light!  "    she  added,  as  the  sun 


3O4  KATIIRINA. 

Flamed  on  the  velvet  roses  of  the  floor, 
And  touched  to  life  the  pictures  on  the  wall, 
And  smote  the  dusk  with  bars  of  amber. 


"  Paul!" 


I  turned  to  answer,  and  beheld  a  face 
That  glowed  with  a  celestial  fire  like  his 
Who  talked  with  God  in  Sinai. 


"Paul,"  she  said, 

"  I  have  been  almost  home.     I  may  not  tell, 
For  language  cannot  paint,  what  I  have  seen. 
The  veil  was  very  thin,  and  I  so  near, 
I  caught  the  sheen  of  multitudes,  and  heard 
Voices  that  called  and  answered  from  afar 
Through  spaces  inconceivable,  and  songs 
Whose  harmonies  responsive  surged  and  sank 
On  the  attenuate  air,  till  all  my  soul 
Was  thrilled  and  filled  with  music,  and  I  prayed 
To  be  let  loose,  that  I  might  cast  myself 
Upon  the  mighty  tides,  and  give  my  life 
To  the  supernal  raptures.     Ay,  I  prayed 
That  death  might  come,  and  give  me  my  release 
From  this  poor  clay,  and  that  I  might  be  born 
By  its  last  travail  into  life." 


"  Dear  wife,"  I  said, 

"  You  have  been  wildly  dreaming,  and  your  brain, 
Quickened  to  strange  vagaries  by  disease, 
Has  cheated  you.     You  must  not  talk  like  this  : 
'Twill  harm  you.     I  will  hold  your  hand  awhile, 
And  you  shall  have  repose." 


KATHRINA.  305 

She  smiled  and  said, 

While  her  eyes  shone  with  an  unearthly  light  : 
"  You  are  not  wise,  my  dear,  in  things  like  these. 
The  vision  was  as  real  as  yourself; 
And  it  will  not  be  long  before  I  go 
To  mingle  in  the  life  that  I  have  seen. 
I  know  it,  dearest,  for  she  told  me  this." 

"She  told  you  this?"     I  said,— "  Who  told  you  this? 
Did  you  hold  converse  with  the  multitude  ? " 

"  Not  with  the  multitude,"  she  answered  me  ; 

"  But  while  I  gazed  upon  the  throng,  and  prayed 

That  death  might  loose  me,  there  appeared  a  group 

Of  radiant  ones  behind  the  filmy  veil 

That  hung  between  us,  looking  helplessly 

Upon  my  struggle,  but  with  eyes  that  beamed 

With  love  ineffable.     I  knew  them  too — 

Knew  all  of  them  but  one — and  she  the  first, 

And  sweetest  of  them  all.     Pure  as  the  light, 

And  beautiful  as  morning,  she  advanced  ; 

And,  at  her  touch,  the  veil  was  parted  wide, 

While  she  passed  through,  and  stood  beside  my  bed. 

She  took  my  hand,  she  kissed  my  burning  cheek, 

And  then,  in  words  that  calmed  my  spirit,  said  : 

"  '  Your  prayer  will  soon  be  answered  ;    but  one  prayer, 
Breathed  many  years  by  you,  and  many  years 
By  one  you  know  not,  must  be  answered  first. 
You  must  go  back,  though  for  a  little  time, 
And  reap  the  harvest  of  a  life.     To  him 
Whom  you  and  I  have  loved,  say  all  your  heart 
Shall  move  your  lips  to  speak,  and  he  will  hear. 
The  strength,  the  boldness,  the  persuasive  power 
Which  you  may  need  for  this,  shall  all  be  yours  ; 


306  KATHRINA. 

For  you  shall  have  the  ministry  of  those 

Whom  you  have  seen.     Speak  as  a  dying  wife 

Has  liberty  to  speak  to  him  she  leaves  ; 

And  tell  him  this — that  he  may  know  the  voice 

That  gives  you  your  commission — tell  him  this : 

The  lamb  has  slipped  the  leash  by  which  his  hand 

Held  her  in  thrall,  and  seeks  the  mountain-hight ; 

And  he,  if  he  reclaim  her  to  his  grasp, 

Must  follow  where  she  leads,  and  kneel  at  last 

Upon  the  summit  by  her  side.     And  more  : 

Give  him  my  promise  that  if  he  do  this, 

He  shall  receive  from  that  fair  altitude 

Such  vision  of  the  realm  that  lies  around, 

Cleft  by  the  river  of  immortal  life, 

As  shall  so  lift  him  from  his  selfishness, 

And  so  enlarge  his  soul,  that  he  shall  stand 

Redeemed  from  all  unworthiness,  and  saved 

To  happiness  and  heaven.' " 

Her  words  flowed  forth 

With  the  strong  utterance,  in  truth,  of  one 
Inspired  from  other  worlds;    while  pale  and  faint, 
I  drank  her  revelations.     Unbelief 
Had  given  the  lie  to  her  abounding  faith, 
And  held  her  vision  figment  of  disease, 
Until  the  message  of  my  mother  fell 
Upon  my  ears.     Then  overcome,  I  wept 
With  deep  convulsions,  rose  and  walked  the  room, 
Wrung  my  clasped  hands,  and  cried  with  choking  voice, 
"  My  mother  !    O  !   my  mother  !  " 

"  Gently,  love  ! 

For  she  is  with  you,"  said  my  dying  wife. 
"  Nay,  all  of  them  are  with  us.     This  small  room 
Is  now  the  gate  of  heaven  ;    and  you  must  do 


KATHRINA.  307 

That  which  befits  the  presence  and  the  place. 
Come  !   sit  beside  me  ;   for  my  time  is  short, 
And  I  have  much  to  say.     What  will  you  do 
When  I  am  gone  ?     Will  the  old  life  of  art 
Content  you  ?     Will  you  fill  your  waiting  time 
With  the  old  dreams  of  fame  and  excellence  ?  " 

"Alas!"   I  answered,  "  I  am  done  with  life  : 
My  life  is  dead  ;    and  though  my  hand  has  won 
All  it  has  striven  to  win,  and  all  my  heart 
In  its  weak  pride  has  prompted  it  to  seek 
Of  love  and  honor ;    though  success  is  mine 
In  all  my  eager  enterprise,  I  know 
My  life  has  been  a  failure.     I  am  left 
Or  shall  be  left,  when  you,  my  love,  are  gone, 
Without  resource — a  hopeless,  worthless  man, 
Longing  to  hide  his  shame  and  his  despair 
Within  the  grave." 

"  I  thank  thee,  Lord  !  "    she  said  : 

"  So  many  prayers  are  answered !  .  .  .  .  You  knew  not 
That  I  had  asked  for  this.     You  did  not  know 
When  you  were  striving  with  your  feeble  might 
For  the  great  prizes  that  beguiled  your  pride, 
That  at  the  hand  of  God  I  begged  success. 
Ay,  Paul,  I  prayed  that  you  might  gather  all 
The  good  that  you  have  won,  and  that,  at  last, 
You  might  be  brought  to  know  the  worthlessness 
Of  every  selfish  meed,  and  feel  how  weak — 
How  worse  than  helpless — is  the  highest  man 
Who  lives  within,  and  labors  to,  himself. 
Not  one  of  all  the  prizes  you  have  gained 
Contains  the  good  that  lies  in  your  despair." 

"  Teach  me,"  I  said,  "  for  I  am  ignorant  ; 


308  KATHRINA. 

Lead  me,  for  I  am  blind.     Explain  the  past, 
With  all  its  errors.     Why  am  I  so  low, 
And  you  so  high  ?  " 

She  pressed  my  hand,  and  said  : 
"You  have  been  hungry  all  your  life  for  God, 
And  known  it  not.     You  lavished  first  on  me 
Your  heart's  best  love.     You  poured  its  treasured  wealth 
At  an  unworthy  shrine.     You  made  a  God 
Of  poor  mortality  ;    and  when  you  learned 
Your  love  was  greater  than  the  one  you  loved — 
The  one  you  worshiped — you  invoked  the  aid 
Of  your  imagination,  to  enrich 
Your  pampered  idol,  till  at  last  you  bowed 
Before  a  creature  of  your  thought.     You  stole 
From  excellence  divine  the  grace  and  good 
That  made  me  worshipful  ;    and  even  these 
Palled  on  your  heart  at  last,  and  ceased  to  yield 
The  inspiration  that  you  craved.     You  pined, 
You  starved  for  something  infinitely  sweet ; 
And  still  you  sought  it  blindly,  wilfully 
In  your  poor  wife, — sought  it,  and  found  it  not, 
Through  wasted  years  of  life. 

"  And  then  you  craved 
An  infinite  return.     You  asked  for  more 
Than  I  could  give,  although  I  gave  you  all 
That  woman  can  bestow  on  man.     You  knew 
You  held  my  constant  love,  unlimited 
Save  by  the  bounds  of  mortal  tenderness  ; 
And  still  you  longed  for  more.     Then  sprang  your  scheme 
For  finding  in  the  love  of  multitudes, 
And  in  their  praise,  that  which  had  failed  in  me. 
You  wrote  for  love  and  fame,  and  won  them  both 
By  manly  striving — won  and  wore  them  long. 


KAT1IKINA.  309 

All  good  there  is  in  love  and  praise  of  men, 
You  garnered  in  your  life.     On  this  reward 
You  lived,  till  you  were  sated,  or  until 
You  learned  it  bore  no  satisfying  meed — 
Learned  that  the  love  of  many  was  not  more 
Than  love  of  one.     With  all  my  love  your  own, 
With  love  and  praise  of  men,  your  famished  soul 
Craved  infinite  approval — craved  a  love 
Beyond  the  love  of  woman  and  of  man. 

"  Then  with  new  hope,  you  apotheosized 

Your  cherished  art,  and  sought  for  excellence 

And  for  your  own  approval  ;  with  what  end, 

Your  helplessness  informs  me.     You  essayed 

The  revelation  of  the  mighty  forms 

That  dwell  in  the  unrealized.     You  sought 

To  shape  your  best  ideals,  and  to  find 

In  the  grand  scheme  your  motive  and  reward. 

All  this  blind  reaching  after  excellence, 

Was  but  the  reaching  of  your  soul  for  God. 

Imagination  could  not  touch  the  hight  ; 

And  you  were  baffled.     So,  you  failed  to  find 

The  God  your  spirit  yearned  for  in  your  art, 

And  failed  of  self-approval. 

"  You  have  now 

But  one  resource, — you  are  shut  up  to  this  : 
You  must  bow  down  and  worship  God  ;    and  give 
Your  heart  to  him,  accept  his  love  for  you, 
And  feast  your  soul  on  excellence  in  him. 
So,  a  new  life  shall  open  to  your  feet, 
Strown  richly  with  rewards  ;    and  when  your  steps 
Shall  reach  the  river,  I  will  wait  for  you 
Upon  the  other  shore,  and  we  shall  be 
One  in  the  life  immortal  as  in  this. 


310  KATIIR1NA. 

0  !    Paul !    your  time  is  now.     I  cannot  die 
And  leave  you  comfortless.     I  cannot  die 
And  enter  on  the  pleasures  that  I  know 
Await  me  yonder,  with  the  consciousness 
That  you  are  still  unhappy." 

All  my  life 

Thus  lay  revealed  in  light  which  she  had  poured 
Upon  its  track.     I  learned  where  she  had  found 
Her  peaceful  joy,  her  satisfying  good, 
And  where,  in  my  rebellious  pride  of  heart, 
Mine  had  been  lost.     She,  by  an  instinct  sure, 
Or  by  the  grace  of  Heaven,  had  in  her  youth, 
Though  sorely  chastened,  given  herself  to  God  ; 
And  through  a  life  of  saintly  purity — 
A  life  of  love  to  me  and  love  to  all — 
Had  feasted  at  the  fountain  of  all  love. 
Had  worshiped  at  the  Excellence  Divine, 
And  only  waited  for  my  last  adieu 
To  take  her  crown. 

I  sat  like  one  struck  dumb. 

1  knew  not  how  to  speak,  or  what  to  do. 
She  looked  at  me  expectant  ;    while  a  thrill 
Of  terror  shot  through  all  my  frame. 

"Alas!" 
She  said,  "  I  thought  you  would  be  ready  now." 


At  this,  the  door  was  opened  silently, 

And  our  dear  daughter  stood  within  the  room. 

Alarmed  at  vision  of  the  sudden  change 

That  death  had  wrought  upon  her  mother's  face, 

She  hastened  to  her  side,  and  kneeling  there, 


KATIIRINA.  311 

Bowed  on  her  breast  with  tears  and  choking  sobs, 
Her  heart  too  full  for  speech. 

"  Be  silent,  dear ! " 

The  dying  mother  said,  resting  her  hand 
Upon  her  daughter's  head.     "  Be  silent,  dear ! 
Your  father  kneels  to  pray.     Make  room  for  him, 
That  he  may  kneel  beside  you." 

At  her  words, 

1  was  endowed  with  apprehensions  new  ; 
And  somewhere  in  my  quickened  consciousness, 
I  felt  the  presence  of  her  heavenly  friends, 
And  knew  that  there  were  spirits  in  the  room. 
1  did  not  doubt,  nor  have  I  doubted  since, 
That  there  were  loving  witnesses  of  all 
The  scenes  enacted  round  that  hallowed  bed. 
Ay,  and  they  spoke.     Deep  in  the  innermost 
I  heard  the  tender  words,  "O!    kneel  my  son! — " 
A  sweet  monition  from  my  mother's  lips. 

"  Kneel!   kneel  !  "     It  was  the  echo  of  a  throng. 

"  Kneel !    kneel  !  "     The  gentle  mandate  reached  my  heart 
From  depths  of  lofty  space.     It  was  the  voice 
Of  the  Good  Father. 

From  the  curtain  folds, 
That  rustled  at  the  window,  in  the  airs 
That  moved  with  conscious  pulse  to  passing  wings, 
Came  the  same  burden  "Kneel!" 

"  Kneel!   kneel!     O!    kneel!" 
In  tones  of  earnest  pleading,  came  from  lips 
Already  pinched  by  death. 


312  KATHRINA. 

A  hundred  worlds, 

Imposed  upon  my  shoulders,  had  not  bowed 
And  crushed  me  to  my  knees  with  surer  power. 
The  hand  that  lay  upon  my  daughter's  head 
Then  passed  to  mine  ;   but  still  my  lips  were  dumb. 

"Pray!"   said  the  spirit  of  my  mother. 

"  Pray !  " 
The  word  repeated,  came  from  many  lips. 

"Pray!"    said  the  voice  of  God  within  my  soul; 
While  every  whisper  of  the  living  air 
Echoed  the  low  command. 

"Pray!    pray!    O!    pray!" 
My  dying  wife  entreated,  while  swift  tears 
Slid  to  her  pillow. 

Then  the  impulse  came, 
And  I  poured  out  like  water  all  my  heart. 
"O!   God!"    I  said,  "be  merciful  to  me 
A  reprobate  !       I  have  blasphemed  thy  name, 
Abused  thy  patient  love,  and  held  from  thee 
My  heart  and  life  ;    and  now,  in  my  extreme 
Of  need  and  of  despair,  I  come  to  thee. 

0  !    cast  me  not  away,  for  here,  at  last, 
After  a  life  of  selfishness  and  sin, 

1  yield  my  will  to  thine,  and  pledge  my  soul — 
All  that  I  am,  all  I  can  ever  be — 
Supremely  to  thy  service.     I  renounce 

All  worldly  aims,  all  selfish  enterprise, 
And  dedicate  the  remnant  of  my  power 
To  thee  and  those  thou  lovest.     Comfort  me ! 
O  !    come  and  comfort  me,  for  I  despair  ! 


KATHRINA.  313 

Give  me  thy  peace,  for  I  am  rent  and  tossed  ! 
Feed  me  with  love,  else  I  shall  die  of  want  ! 
Behold  !    I  empty  out  my  worthlessness, 
And  beg  thee  to  come  in,  and  fill  my  soul 
With  thy  rich  presence.     I  adore  thy  love  ; 
I  seek  for  thy  approval ;    I  bow  down, 
And  worship  thee,  the  Excellence  Supreme. 
I've  tasted  of  the  sweetest  that  the  world 
Can  give  to  me ;   and  human  love  and  praise, 
And  all  of  excellence  within  the  scope 
Of  my  conception,  and  my  power  to  reach 
And  realize  in  highest  forms  of  art, 
Have  left  me  hungry,  thirsty  for  thyself. 

0  !    feed  and  fire  me !      Fill  and  furnish  me  ! 
And  if  thou  hast  for  me  some  humble  task — 
Some  service  for  thyself,  or  for  thy  own — 
Reveal  it  to  thy  sad,  repentant  child, 

Or  use  him  as  thy  willing  instrument. 

1  ask  it  for  the  sake  of  Jesus  Christ, 
Henceforth  my  Master  !  " 

Multitudes,  it  seemed, 

Responded  with  "  Amen  !  "   as  if  the  word 
Were  caught  from  mortal  lips  by  swooping  choirs 
Of  spirits  ministrant,  and  borne  away 
In  sweet  reverberations  into  space. 


I  raised  my  head  at  last,  and  met  the  eyes 
Bright  with  the  light  of  death,  and  with  the  dawn 
Of  opening  heaven.     The  smile  that  overspread 
The  fading  features  was  the  peaceful  smile 
Of  an  immortal, — full  of  faith  and  love — 
A  satisfied,  triumphant,  shining  smile, 
Lit  by  the  heavenly  glory. 


314  KATIIRINA. 

"  Paul,"  she  said, 

"  My  work  is  done  ;   but  you  will  live  and  work 
These  many  years.     Your  life  is  just  begun, 
Too  late,  but  well  begun  ;    and  you  are  mine, 
Now  and  forevermore.  .  .  .  Dear  Lord  !    my  thanks 
For  this  thy  crowning  blessing  !  " 

Then  she  paused, 

And  raised  her  eyes  in  a  seraphic  trance, 
And  lifted  her  thin  fingers,  that  were  thrilled 
With  tremulous  motion,  like  the  slender  spray 
On  which  a  throbbing  song-bird  clings,  and  pours 
His  sweet  incontinence  of  ecstasy, 
And  then  in  broken  whispers  said  to  me  : 
"  Do  you  not  hear  them  ?     They  have  caught  the  news  ; 
And  all  the  sky  is  ringing  with  their  song 
Of  gladness  and  of  welcome.     'Paul  is  saved .' 
l\ud  is  redeemed  and  saved!'1    I  hear  them  cry  ; 
And  myriad  voices  catch  the  new  delight, 
And  carry  the  acclaim,  till  heaven  itself 
Sends  back  the  happy  echo  :    '  Paul  is  saved !  '  " 

She  stretched  her  hands,  and  took  me  to  her  breast. 
I  kissed  her,  blessed  her,  spoke  my  last  adieu, 
And  yielded  place  to  her  whom  God  had  given 
To  be  our  child.     After  a  long  embrace, 
She  whispered  :    "  I  am  weary  ;    let  me  sleep!" 

She  passed  to  peaceful  slumber  like  a  child, 
The  while  attendant  angels  built  the  dream 
On  which  she  rode  to  heaven.     Not  once  again 
She  spoke  to  mortal  ears,  but  slept  and  smiled, 
And  slept  and  smiled  again,  till  daylight  passed. 
The  night  came  down  ;    the  long  hours  lapsed  away ; 
The  city  sounds  grew  fainter,  till  at  last 


'  THE  MORNING  STAR  WAS  BLAZING  IN  ITS  GLORY.' 


KATHRINA.  315 

We  sat  alone  with  silence  and  with  death. 
At  the  first  blush  of  morning  she  looked  up, 
And  spoke,  but  not  to  us  :    "  I'm  coining  now!" 

I  sought  the  window,  to  relieve  the  pain 

Of  long  suppressed  emotion.     In  the  East, 

Tinged  with  the  golden  dawn,  the  morning  star 

Was  blazing  in  its  glory,  while  beneath, 

The  slender  moon,  at  its  last  rising,  hung, 

Paling  and  dying  in  the  growing  light, 

And  passing  with  that  leading  up  to  heaven. 

My  daughter  stood  beside  her  mother's  bed, 

But  I  had  better  vision  of  the  scene 

In  the  sweet  symbol  God  had  hung  for  me 

Upon  the  sky. 

Swiftly  the  dawn  advanced, 
And  higher  rose,  and  still  more  faintly  shone, 
The  star-led  moon.     Then,  as  it  faded  out, 
Quenched  by  prevailing  day,  I  heard  one  sigh — 
A  sigh  so  charged  with  pathos  of  deep  joy, 
And  peace  ineffable,  that  memory 
Can  never  lose  the  sound  ;   and  all  was  past ! 


The  peaceful  summer-day  that  rose  upon 

This  night  of  trial  and  this  morn  of  grief, 

Rose  not  with  calmer  light  than  that  which  dawned 

Upon  my  spirit.     Chastened,  bowed,  subdued, 

I  kissed  the  rod  that  smote  me,  and  exclaimed : 

"  The  Lord  hath  given  ;    the  Lord  hath  taken  away; 

And  blessed  be  his  name !  " 


316  KATIIRINA. 

Rebellion  slept. 

I  grieved,  and  still  I  grieve  ;    but  with  a  heart 
At  peace  with  God,  and  soft  with  sympathy 
Toward  all  my  sorrowing,  struggling,  sinful  race. 
My  hope,  that  clung  so  fondly  to  the  world 
And  the  rewards  of  time,  an  anchor  sure 
Now  grasps  the  Eternal  Rock  within  the  veil 
Of  troubled  waters.     Storms  may  wrench  and  toss, 
And  tides  may  swing  me,  in  their  ebb  and  flow, 
But  I  shall  not  be  moved. 

Once  more  !    once  more  ! 

I  shall  behold  her  face,  and  clasp  her  hand  ! 
Once  more — forevermore  ! 

So  here  I  give 

The  gospel  of  her  precious,  Christian  life. 
I  owe  it  to  herself,  and  to  the  world. 
Grateful  for  all  her  tender  ministry 
In  life  and  death,  I  bring  these  leaves,  entwined 
With  her  own  roses,  dewy  with  my  tears, 
And  lay  them  as  the  tribute  of  my  love 
Upon  the  grave  that  holds  her  sacred  dust. 


JACOB  KURD'S  CHILD. 


JACOB  KURD'S  CHILD. 


WHO  breaketh  his  fast  so  early, 
While  yet  he  can  count  the  stars  ? 

And  whose  are  the  footsteps  trailing  through 
The  dew  to  the  pasture-bars  ? 

He  snaffleth  his  white-eyed  gelding, 

He  mounteth  the  saddle-tree  ; 
And  out  from  the  skirts  of  Ipswich  town 

All  grimly  rideth  he. 

Out  from  the  town  at  sunrise, 

His  stubborn  fields  untilled, 
Rideth  Jacob  Hurd  for  a  day  and  a  night 

To  see  three  witches  killed. 

For  Hurd  is  a  stalwart  Christian 
Whom  Satan  hath  ne'er  enticed  ; 

He  believeth  in  God  and  His  holy  word, 
And  he  hateth  Antichrist. 

The  devil  in  awe  he  holdeth, 

And  God  with  an  equal  fear  ; 
And  little  of  Gospel  and  much  of  Law 

Make  up  his  creed  severe. 


320  JACOB  KURD'S  CHILD. 

With  a  burning  zeal  for  his  Master, 
He  fighteth  with  Death  and  Hell ; 

And  when  a  witch  is  brought  to  the  rope, 
It  pleaseth  old  Jacob  well. 

So  out  of  the  town  at  sunrise, 

His  stubborn  fields  untilled, 
He  rideth  forth  for  a  day  and  a  night 

To  see  three  witches  killed. 

He  glanceth  backward  at  Ipswich, 

Then  leaneth  low  to  pray, 
For  he  knoweth  that  in  the  wilderness 

The  savage  haunts  the  way. 

Look  for  thy  last,  old  Jacob ! 

And  pray,  though  thy  prayer  be  vain; 
Thy  errand  hath  not  the  smile  of  God; 

Thou  comest  not  again ! 

II. 

It  is  four  o'clock  of  the  evening, 
And,  dressed  in  her  hodden  gray, 

Old  Jacob's  wife  is  humming  a  tune, 
For  the  goodman  is  away. 

And  forth  from  their  distant  cabins 
(None  see  them  so  soon  as  she), 

The  women  who  hold  old  Hurd  in  fear 
Are  coming  to  drink  her  tea. 

There's  the  pretty  wife  of  Dunster, 
With  Goffe's,  from  the  meadow  farm, 

And  the  Sparhawke  girls,  with  goodwife  Gill, 
And  the  Glovers,  arm  in  arm. 


JACOB  KURD'S  CHILD.  321 

There  is  Peter  Flynt's  young  widow, 

And  her  sister,  in  Lon'on  brown, 
And  Miriam  Winship  :    oh,  sweet  and  wise 

Is  the  school-ma'am  of  the  town ! 

And  the  heart  of  the  goodwife,  waiting 

The  coming  of  friendly  feet, 
Is  smitten  through  by  an  olden  pang 

That  is  bitter  at  once,  and  sweet. 

For  the  school-ma'am  once  taught  him  letters — 

The  wonderful  boy  who  died, 
And  who  took  from  her  motherly  bosom  all 

Its  solace  and  its  pride  ; — 

And  Miriam's  coming  would  surely 

Bring  to  her  heart  the  joy 
Of  speaking,  with  none  to  make  afraid, 

About  her  perished  boy. 

(For  Jacob  held  hard  to  silence, 

Though  he  was  more  than  sad, 
And  would  not  speak  of  their  cruel  loss 

With  the  mother  of  the  lad.) 

She  meeteth  them  at  her  door-way 

With  a  greeting  of  hand  to  hand, 
But  she  kisseth  Miriam  on  her  cheek, 

And  the  women  understand. 


ill. 

It  is  six  o'clock  of  the  evening, 
And,  grouped  at  the  table  rude, 

The  women  have  bent  their  heads  to  say 
Their  word  of  gratitude. 
14* 


322  JACOB  HURD'S  CHILD. 

Now  the  tea  and  the  feast  are  passing, 
While  they  gossip  of  home  affairs — 

Of  the  deacon's  cattle  in  the  pound, 
Or  a  sick  child  up  for  prayers  ; — 

Of  a  work  of  grace  in  the  village, 

And  the  devil's  work  abroad, 
And  the  mischievous  witches  soon  to  go 

To  the  judgment  bar  of  God. 

But  Miriam  speaketh  a  sentence 

That  winneth  the  ears  of  all, 
When  she  turneth  her  eyes  on  goodwife  Kurd, 

And  biddeth  her  talk  of  Paul. 

Tears  fill  the  eyes  of  the  mother, 

And  the  kindly  women  list : 
"  The  lips,"  said  she,  "  should  be  good  and  wise 

That  an  angel's  lips  have  kissed; 

"  But  in  truth  my  lips  are  neither ; 

For  God,  by  the  hand  of  pain, 
Sent  a  gift  that  my  soul  misunderstood, 

And  he  took  it  back  again. 

"  For  Jacob  and  I  had  prayed  him 

That  who  should  be  born  of  me 
Should  be  sanctified  at  his  birth,  and  strong 

In  the  power  of  prophecy. 

"  And  the  prayer  was  sweetly  answered, 

But  the  prophet,  all  unguessed, 
Grew  weary  of  our  clumsy  ways, 

And  entered  into  rest.  . 


JACOB    HURD'S   CHILD.  323 

"  It  was  better  that  he  left  us, 

For  Jacob  could  not  know, 
That  a  child's  sweet  story  was  not  a  lie 

To  be  punished  by  a  blow. 

"  For  he  was  not  made  like  others, 

His  thoughts  were  weird  and  wild  ; 
And  Jacob  at  last  believed,  in  truth, 

That  a  devil  possessed  the  child. 

"  With  the  birds  that  gathered  about  him, 

He  prattled  for  hours  and  hours  ; 
He  sang  tcr  the  spider  upon  his  web, 

And  the  bees  in  the  hearts  of  flowers. 

"  He  carried  a  curious  wisdom  ; 

And  many  were  the  times 
When  he  sat  in  the  sun  the  livelong  day, 

And  sang  to  himself  in  rhymes. 

"  And  he  told  such  marvelous  stories 

Of  what  he  heard  in  the  air, — 
Of  the  talk  of  the  birds,  and  the  songs  of  the  sea,— 

That  we  were  in  despair. 

"  And  Jacob  exclaimed  :    '  God  help  us  ! 

For  how  is  a  man  to  know 
Whether  a  poet  comes  down  from  heaven, 

Or  climbs  from  the  world  below  ?  ' 

"  One  day,  in  the  early  autumn, 

When  pigeons  were  in  the  woods, 
And  out  in  the  stubble  the  striped  quail 

Were  leading  their  pretty  broods  ; 


324  JACOB  HURD'S  CHILD. 

"  When  the  partridge  drummed  in  the  distance, 
And  the  squirrel  barked  from  the  oak, 

And  forth  from  the  smoky  hill- side  came 
The  woodman's  lazy  stroke, 

"  He  went  away  toward  the  forest, 

And  I  saw  his  face  no  more 
Till,  flushed  by  the  red  of  the  setting  sun, 

He  stood  in  the  cabin  door. 

"  '  Now  where  hast  thou  been  ? '   said  Jacob. 

'  I  have  been  on  my  horse,'  said  he  ; 
And  Jacob  grew  pale,  and  shook  like  a  leaf 

As  he  took  the  lad  on  his  "knee. 

"  '  What  horse  hast  thou  ridden  ?  '    said  Jacob. 

'  I  have  ridden  my  own,'  he  said — 
'  My  golden  horse  with  a  silver  tail, 

And  a  mane  of  silver  thread. 

"  '  He  came  to  me  in  the  pasture, 

And  he  knelt  for  me  to  mount ; 
And  his  saddle  and  bridle  were  blazing  with 

More  jewels  than  I  could  count. 

"  '  And  he  bore  me  like  the  lightning, 

Over  sea  and  over  land, 
And  he  coursed  the  shore,  or  mounted  the  air, 

Or  stopped  at  my  command. 

"  '  I  have  seen  the  windy  ocean, 

And  flown  above  its  waves, 
And  I've  seen  the  great  leviathan 

Playing  within  its  caves. 


JACOB    HURD'S    CHILD.  325 

"  '  I  have  ridden  through  old  England, 

Over  hills  and  over  dells, 
I  have  cantered  through  the  London  streets, 

And  heard  the  London  bells. 

"  '  I  have  been  to  the  holy  places, 

And  knelt  and  prayed  in  them, 
And  fed  my  golden  horse  with  bread 

In  the  streets  of  Jerusalem. 

"  '  I  have  ridden  by  mighty  rivers, 

From  the  mountains  to  the  sea  ; 
And  hark ! '    said  he,  '  for  my  golden  horse 

Is  whinnying  low  for  me  ! ' 

"  '  Get  down  ! '    said  Jacob,  fiercely  ; 

"  'Thou  knowest  thou  hast  lied; 
Surely  the  devil  possesseth  thee  !  ' 

And  he  smote  him  from  his  side. 

"  The  sweet  romancer  staggered 

Into  my  waiting  arms, 
And  I  kissed  his  cheeks  without  a  fear 

Of  Satan  or  his  charms. 

"  That  night  he  lay  in  a  fever, 

And  raved  of  his  golden  horse  ; 
And  Jacob  sat  and  watched  by  him, 

In  a  helpless,  dumb  remorse. 

"  But  my  soul  was  in  rebellion, 

For  how  could  a  child  of  prayer, 
With  the  love  of  his  mother  in  his  heart, 

Be  taken  in  such  a  snare  ? 


326  JACOB  KURD'S  CHILD. 

"  '  Thou  believest  that  Mother  Sewall 

Rideth  a  broom,'  said  I  ; 
'  But  thy  darling  talks  of  his  golden  horse, 

And  thou  smitest  him  for  a  lie. 

"'And  I  think,  of  the  two,  thou  sinnest 

Against  thy  God  the  most  ; 
For  I  judge  thou  chargest  the  Evil  One 

With  the  work  of  the  Holy  Ghost ! ' 

"  But  I  begged  my  husband's  pardon, 

For  he  was  sore  distraught ; 
And  would  never  leave  the  darling's  bed, 

Though  often  I  besought. 

"  Long  days  and  nights  thereafter, 
In  his  dream  the  sweet  lad  lay, 

But  his  fancy  was  on  its  journeying, 
And  always  far  away. 

"  And  he  spoke  of  wondrous  countries 
Through  which  his  journey  led, 

On  his  golden  horse  with  the  silver  tail, 
And  the  mane  of  silver  thread. 

"  Till  Jacob  and  I  believed  him, 
And  would  not  have  marveled  much 

Had  the  golden  creature  revealed  himself 
To  our  credulous  sight  and  touch. 

"  But  weaker  he  grew  and  weaker, 

Until  there  came  in  his  eye 
A  look  so  weary  and  worn,  we  knew 

Our  little  boy  would  die. 


JACOB  KURD'S  CHILD.  327 

"  One  still  and  cloudy  midnight 

He  woke  and  gazed  around, 
And  said  that  he  heard  his  golden  horse 

Pawing  the  pasture-ground. 

"  I  think  'twas  a  bolt  of  thunder    . 

Shot  by  a  distant  shower, 
That  shook  the  earth  and  the  window-sash 

In  the  last  throe  of  its  power. 

"And  I  think  it  was  the  lightning, 

That  cheated  our  straining  eyes  ; 
But  it  seemed  as  if  a  beauteous  horse 

Entered  in  golden  guise, 

"  Breathing  a  flame  from  his  nostrils, 

And  pausing  by  the  bed  ; 
When  the  child  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  joy, 

And  sank  on  his  pillow,  dead. 

"And  then,  on  the  second  morning, 

We  bore  him  to  the  grave, — 
The  child  that  we  were  unfit  to  keep, 

And  had  no  power  to  save. 

"But  in  the  long  procession, 

No  eyes  but  ours  could  see 
The  wondrous  figure  we  beheld 

Leading  the  company. 

"  For  following  hard  the  neighbors 

Who  bore  the  precious  corse, 
Rode  little  Paul  right  gallantly 

Upon  his  golden  horse. 


328  JACOB  HURD'S  CHILD. 

"  I  saw  him  just  as  plainly 

As  e'er  I  saw  a  flame  ; 
And  he  nodded  to  me  with  a  smile, 

And  Jacob  saw  the  same." 


IV. 

The  story  and  feast  are  ended, 

And  forth  from  the  open  door, 
With  eyelids  wide  and  faces  flushed, 

The  guests  of  the  evening  pour. 

The  sun  in  the  west  is  setting, 
And  bathing  each  farm  and  fold 

With  the  lifted  dust  of  the  village  ways 
In  an  atmosphere  of  gold. 

Now  what  is  that  in  the  distance 
Which  catches  each  gazing  eye  ? 

'Tis  a  flurry  of  dust  that  travels  fast, 
Like  a  whirlwind  from  the  sky  ! 

Nearer  it  comes,  and  nearer, 

Till  all  the  gazers  know 
That  a  horse  is  running  without  a  man 

Behind  the  saddle-bow  ! 

He  courses  along  the  highway 

That  leads  across  the  plain, 
And  they  hear  the  beat  of  his  heavy  feet 

As  he  rushes  down  the  lane. 

And,  leaning  on  Miriam  Winship, 

A  cry  in  her  frightened  breath, 
The  good  wife  Hurd  knows  well  that  the  horse 

Is  the  messenger  of  death  ; 


JACOB  KURD'S  CHILD.  329 

And  that  somewhere  among  the  shadows 

Her  husband  lies  apart, 
With  the  scalp-lock  riven  from  his  head 

And  an  arrow  in  his  heart. 


And  the  women  scream  in  wonder, 

For  all  can  plainly  see 
That  a  little  lad  with  a  smiling  face 

Bestrides  the  saddle-tree. 

He  tosses  a  kiss  to  his  mother, 

He  tenderly  bows  to  all, 
And  they  know  that  their  eyes  behold  indeed, 

The  spirit  of  little  Paul. 

The  horse  flies  by  the  cottage, 

And  into  his  pasture  home, 
Yellow  and  bright  in  the  sunset  gold, 

And  spotted  with  silver  foam. 

And  the  women  hasten  homeward, 

Among  the  dropping  dews, 
To  tell  of  the  marvels  they  have  seen, 

And  to  bear  the  heavy  news. 

But  Miriam  passeth  inward, 

Her  hand  in  goodwife  Kurd's, 
And  readeth  there,  for  her  comforting, 

The  Bible's  gracious  words. 

Then  reverently  she  kneeleth 

And  uttereth  a  prayer, 
That  the  childless  and  the  widowed  one 

May  have  the  Father's  care. 


33O  JACOB  KURD'S  CHILD. 

But  ere  her  prayer  she  endeth, 
With  fervent  voice  she  saith  : 

"  Oh  punish  not  our  blundering  more 
With  chastisement  of  death  ! 

/    "  But  when  thou  sendest  poets 

To  such  dull  folk  as  we, 
Inspire  our  blind  and  doubting  eyes 
To  know  them  when  we  see  ! " 


' 


'^ 


THE 

MISTRESS  OF  THE  MANSE. 


PRELUDE. 

IN  all  the  crowded  Universe 

There  is  but  one  stupendous  Word  ; 

And  huge  and  rough,  or  trimmed  and  terse, 

Its  fragments  build  and  undergird 

The  songs  and  stories  we  rehearse. 

All  forms  that  human  language  tries, 
All  phrases  of  the  books  and  schools, 
And  all  the  words  of  great  and  wise 
Are  weak  attempts,  or  clumsy  tools, 
To  speak  the  Word  that  speech  defies. 

That  Word,  ineffable  to  man, 

Though  whispered  through  a  thousand  years, 

Or  thundered  in  the  fiery  van 

Of  all  the  myriad-wheeling  spheres, 

Remains  unvoiced  since  time  began. 

There  is  no  tree  that  rears  its  crest, 
No  fern  or  flower  that  cleaves  the  sod, 
Nor  bird  that  sings  above  its  nest, 
But  tries  to  speak  this  Word  of  God, 
And  dies  when  it  has  done  its  best. 

Like  marble  in  the  mountain  mine, 
White  at  its  heart  as  on  its  face, 


334  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

We  chip  its  crystals,  nor  divine 
The  forms  of  majesty  and  grace 
That  wait  within  the  central  shrine ! 

And  this  Great  Word,  all  words  above, 
Including,  yet  defying  all — 
Soft  as  the  crooning  of  a  dove, 
And  strong  as  the  Archangel's  call — 
Means  only  this — means  only  Love ! 

It  represents  Creation's  whole, — 
All  space,  all  worlds,  all  living  things  : 
And  Love  endows  them  with  a  soul, — 
The  bright  Shechinah,  throned  in  wings 
Behind  the  Temple's  Sacred  Scroll ! 

The  love  of  home  and  native  land, 
The  love  that  springs  in  son  and  sire, 
And  that  which  welds  the  heart  and  hand 
Of  man  and  maiden  in  its  fire, 
Are  signs  by  which  we  understand 

The  love  whose  passion  shook  The  Cross  ; 
And  all  those  loves  that,  deep  and  broad, 
Make  princely  gain  of  piteous  loss, 
Reveal  the  love  that  lives  in  God 
As  in  a  blood-illumined  gloss. 


II. 

Mayhap  the  humble  tale  I  tell 
Of  the  great  passion  which  absorbs 
The  gentle  hearts  that  round  me  dwell, 
And  wings  the  world,  and  holds  the  orbs, 
And  strews  the  skies  with  asphodel, 


THE   MISTRESS    OF   THE   MANSE.  335 

Will  yield  some  letters  of  the  Word 
Which  still  unspoken  must  remain ; 
And  bear  to  bosoms,  swelled  and  stirred, 
Some  meanings  of  the  tender  pain 
Which  they  have  neither  seen  nor  heard. 

My  Philip,  bred  in  Northern  climes, 
Preached  the  great  Word  I  strive  to  sing ; 
And  in  the  grand  and  golden  times — 
Aflame  with  love— he  went  to  bring 
His  Mildred — subject  of  my  rhymes — 

From  her  far  home  on  Southern  plains  ; 
And  what  they  shared  of  bale  and  bliss, 
And  what  their  losses,  what  their  gains, 
The  loving  eye  that  readeth  this 
May  gather,  if  it  take  the  pains. 


LOVE'S    EXPERIMENTS. 


THE  group  of  ladies  at  the  gate 
Dissolved,  and  tripped  in  haste  away; 
And  then,  with  backward  tilting  freight, 
The  old  stage  coach,  in  dusty  gray, 
Stopped ;   and  the  pastor  and  his  mate 

Stepped  forth,  and  passed  the  waiting  door, 
And  closed  it  on  the  gazing  street. 
"  Oh,  Philip  !  "     She  could  say  no  more  ; 
"  Oh,  Mildred !     You're  at  home,  my  sweet,- 
The  old  life  closed:    the  new  before!" 

"Dinah,  the  mistress!"     And  the  maid, 

Grown  motherly  with  household  care 

And  loving  service,  and  arrayed 

In  homely  neatness,  took  the  pair 

Of  small  gloved  hands  held  out,  and  paid 

Her  low  obeisance;   then — "this  way!" 
And  when  she  brought  her  forth  at  last, 
To  him  who  grudged  the  long  delay, 
He  found  the  soil  of  travel  cast, 
And  Mildred  fresh  and  fair  as  May. 
'5 


338  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 


II. 


"  This  is  our  little  Manse,"  he  said ; 
"  Now  look  with  both  your  curious  eyes 
Around,  beneath,  and  overhead, 
And,  seeing  all  things,  realize 
That  they  are  ours,  and  we  are  wed ! 

"  Walk  through  these  freshly  garnished  rooms- 
These  halls  of  oak  and  tinted  pearl ; 
And  mark  the  cups  of  clover-blooms, 
Cut  fresh,  to  greet  the  stranger-girl, 
By  those  whose  courtesy  illumes 

"  The  house  beyond  the  grace  of  flowers ! 
They  greet  you,  mantled  by  my  name, 
And  rain  their  tenderness  in  showers ; 
Responding  to  the  double  claim 
Of  love  no  longer  mine,  but  ours. 

"  This  is  our  parlor,  plain  and  sweet : 
Your  hands  shall  make  it  half  divine. 
That  wide,  old-fashioned  window-seat, 
Beneath  your  touch  shall  grow  a  shrine  ; 
And  every  nooklet  and  retreat, 

"  And  every  barren  ledge  and  shelf, 
Shall  wear  a  charm  beyond  the  boon 
Of  treasure-bearing  drift,  or  delf, 
Or  dreams  that  flutter  from  the  moon; 
For  it  shall  blossom  with  yourself. 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  339 

"  This  is  my  study  :    here,  alone, 
Prayerful  to  Him  whom  I  adore, 
And  gathering  speech  to  make  him  known, 
Your  far,  quick  footsteps  on  the  floor, 
Your  breezy  robe,  your  cheerful  tone, 

"  As  through  our  pretty  home  you  speed 
The  busy  ministries  of  life, 
Shall  stir  me  swifter  than  my  creed, 
And  be  more  musical,  dear  wife, 
Than  sweep  of  harp,  or  pipe  of  reed. 

"Here  is  our  fairy  banquet  hall! 

See  how  it  opens  to  the  East, 

And  looks  through  elms !     The  board  is  small, 

But  what  it  bears  shall  be  a  feast 

At  morn,  at  noon,  and  evenfall. 

"  There  will  you  sit  in  girlish  grace, 
And  catch  the  sunrise  in  your  hair ; 
And  looking  at  you,  from  my  place, 
I  shall  behold  more  sweet  and  fair, 
The  morning,  in  your  smiling  face ! 

"And  guests  shall  come,  and  guests  shall  go, 
And  break  with  us  our  daily  bread  ; 
And  sometime — sometime — do  you  know  ? 
I  hope  that— dearest,  lift  your  head, 
And  let  me  speak  it,  soft  and  low ! 

"  The  grass  is  sweeter  than  the  ground: 
Can  love  be  finer  than  its  flowers  ? 
Oh,  sometime — sometime — in  the  round 
Of  coming  years,  this  board  of  ours 
I  hope  may  blossom  and  abound 


340  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

"  With  shining  curls,  and  laughing  eyes, 
And  pleasant  jests  and  merry  words, 
And  questions  full  of  life's  surprise, 
And  light  and  music,  when  the  birds 
Have  left  us  to  our  gloomy  skies. 

— "  Now  mount  with  me  the  old  oak  stair! 
This  is  your  chamber — pink  and  blue ! 
They  asked  the  color  of  your  hair, 
And  draped  and  fitted  all  for  you, 
My  fine  brunette,  with  tasteful  care. 

"  The  linen  is  as  white  as  snow  ; 
The  flowers  are  set  on  every  sconce  ; 
And  e'en  the  cushioned  pin-heads  show 
Your  formal  "  welcome,"  for  the  nonce, 
To  the  sweet  home  their  hands  bestow. 

"Declining  to  the  river's  marge, 
See,  from  this  window,  how  the  turf 
Runs  with  a  thousand  flowers  in  charge 
To  meet  the  silver  feet  of  surf 
That  fly  from  every  passing  barge ! 

"  Along  that  reach  of  liquid  light 
Flies  Commerce  with  her  countless  keels  ; 
There  the  chained  Titan  in  his  might 
Turns  slowly  round  the  groaning  wheels 
That  drag  her  burdens,  day  and  night. 

"  And  now  the  red  sun  flings  his  kiss 
Across  its  waves  from  finger-tips 
That  pause,  and  grudgingly  dismiss 
The  one  he  loves  to  closer  lips, 
And  Moonlight's  quiet  hour  of  bliss. 


,?;vf**. 

^^"'<Sf~~ES3Lji-         *  *• 

•^'-Z  "- ,5  ^  -Kfe   ^SeM'f  ^t,- 

--  •      -^;^->^C£v  ^ 


THE  MOON    CAME    UP   THE  SUMMLR    SKY." 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  341 

"  And  here  comes  Dinah  with  the  steam, 

Of  evening  cups  and  evening  food, 

And  burning  berries  quenched  with  cream, 

And  ministry  of  homely  good 

That  proves,  my  dear,  we  do  not  dream." 


ill. 


He  heard  the  long-drawn  organ-peal 

Within  his  chapel  call  to  prayer  ; 

And,  answering  with  ready  zeal, 

He  breathed  o'er  Mildred's  weary  chair 

These  words,  and  sealed  them  with  a  seal 

"  Only  a  little  hour  I  take  ;— 
But  know  that  I  am  wholly  yours, 
And  that  a  thousand  bosoms  ache 
To  tell  you,  that  while  life  endures, 
You  shall  be  cherished  for  my  sake. 

"  So  throw  your  heart's  door  open  wide, 

And  take  in  mine  as  well  as  me  ; 

Let  no  poor  creature  be  denied 

The  grace  of  tender  courtesy 

And  kindness  from  the  pastor's  bride." 


IV. 


The  moon  came  up  the  summer  sky  : 
"  Oh,  happy  moon  !  "    the  lady  said  ; 
"  Men  love  thee  for  thyself,  but  I 
Am  loved  because  my  life  is  wed 
To  one  whose  message,  pure  and  high, 


342  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

"  Has  spread  the  world's  evangel  far, 

And  thrown  such  radiance  through  the  dark 

That  men  behold  him  as  a  star, 

And  in  his  gracious  coming  mark 

How  beautiful  his  footsteps  are. 

"  Oh,  Moon !  dost  thou  take  all  thy  light 
From  the  great  sun  so  lately  gone  ? 
Are  there  not  shapes  upon  thy  white, 
That  mould  and  make  his  sheen  thy  own, 
And  charms  that  soften  to  the  sight 

"  The  ardor  of  his  blinding  blaze? 
Who  loves  thee  that  thou  art  the  sun's  ? 
Who  does  not  give  thee  sweetest  praise 
Among  the  troop  of  shining  ones 
That  sweep  along  the  heavenly  ways  ? 

"  Yet  still  within  the  holy  place 

The  altar  sanctifies  the  gift  ! 

Poor,  precious  gift,  that  begs  for  grace ! 

Oh,  towering  altar !    that  doth  lift 

The  gift  so  high,  that,  in  its  face, 

"  It  bears  no  beauty  to  the  thought 
Of  those  who  round  the  altar  stand ! 
Poor,  precious  gift,  that  goes  for  naught 
From  willing  heart  and  ready  hand, 
And  wins  no  favor  unbesought ! 

"  The  stars  are  whiter  for  the  blue  ; 
The  sky  is  deeper  for  the  stars  ; 
They  give  and  take  in  commerce  true, 
And  lend  their  beauty  to  the  cars 
Of  downy  dusk,  that  all  night  through 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  343 

"  Sweep  o'er  the  void  on  silver  wheels  ; 
Yet  neither  starry  sky  nor  cloud 
Is  loved  the  less  that  it  reveals 
A  beauty  all  its  own,  endowed 
By  all  the  wealth  its  beauty  steals. 

"Am  I  a  dew-drop  in  a  rose, 
With  no  significance  apart  ? 
Must  I  but  sparkle  in  repose 
Close  to  its  folded,  fragrant  heart, 
Its  peerless  beauty  to  disclose  ? 

"  Would  I  not  toil  to  win  his  bread, 
Or  give  him  all  I  have  to  give  ? 
Would  I  not  die  in  his  sweet  stead, 
And  die  in  joy  ?     But  I  must  live  ; 
And,  living,  I  must  still  be  fed 

"  On  love  that  comes  in  love's  own  right. 
They  must  not  pet  or  pamper  me — 
These  who  rejoice  beneath  his  light — 
Or  pity  him,  that  I  can  be 
So  precious  in  his  princely  sight." 

With  swiftest  wings,  through  heart  and  brain, 

The  little  hour  unheeded  flew  ; 

And  when,  behind  the  blazoned  stain 

Of  saintly  vestures,  red  and  blue, 

The  lights  on  rose  and  window-pane 

Within  the  chapel  slowly  died, 

And  figures  muffled  by  the  moon 

Went  shuffling  home  on  either  side — 

One  seeking  her — she  said  :     "  How  soon  !  " 

And  the  glad  pastor  kissed  his  bride. 


344  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 


V. 

The  bright  night  brightened  into  dawn ; 
The  shadows  down  the  mountain  passed  ; 
And  tree  and  shrub  and  sloping  lawn, 
With  bending,  beaded  beauty  glassed 
In  myriad  suns  the  sun  that  shone ! 

The  robin  fed  her  nested  young ; 
The  swallows  bickered  'neath  the  eaves  ; 
The  hang-bird  in  her  hammock  swung, 
And,  tilting  high  among  the  leaves, 
Her  red  mate  sang  alone,  or  flung 

The  dew-drops  on  her  lifted  head; 
While  on  the  grasses,  white  and  far, 
The  tents  of  fairy  hosts  were  spread 
That,  scared  before  the  morning  star, 
Had  left  their  reeking  camp,  and  fled. 

The  pigeon  preened  his  opal  breast  ; 
And  o'er  the  meads  the  bobolink, 
With  vexed  perplexity  confessed 
His  tinkling  gutturals  in  a  kink, 
Or  giggled  round  his  secret  nest. 

With  dizzy  wings  and  dainty  craft, 

In  green  and  gold,  the  humming-bird 

Dashed  here  and  there,  and  touched  and  quaffed 

The  honey-dew,  then  flashed  and  whirred, 

And  vanished  like  the  feathered  shaft 

That  glitters  from  a  random  bow. 
The  flies  were  buzzing  in  the  sun, 


1  HALF-WAY   BETWEEN    TWO   SKIES  ADRIFT.' 


THE   MISTRESS  OF  THE  MANSE.  345 

The  bees  were  busy  in  the  snow 
Of  lilies,  and  the  spider  spun, 
And  waited  for  his  prey  below. 

With  sail  aloft  and  sail  adown, 

And  motion  neither  slow  nor  swift, 

With  dark-brown  hull  and  shadow  brown, 

Half-way  between  two  skies  adrift, 

The  barque  went  dreaming  toward  the  town. 

'Twas  Sunday  in  the  silent  street, 
And  Sunday  in  the  silent  sky. 
The  peace  of  God  came  down  to  meet 
The  throng  that  laid  their  labor  by, 
And  rested  weary  hands  and  feet. 

Ah,  sweet  the  scene  which  caught  the  glance 
Of  eyes  that  with  the  morning  woke, 
And,  from  their  window  in  the  manse, 
Looked  up  through  sprays  of  elm  and  oak 
Into  the  sky's  serene  expanse, 

And  off  upon  the  distant  wood, 
And  down  into  the  garden's  close, 
And  over,  where  his  chapel  stood 
.In  ivy,  reaching  to  its  rose, 
Waiting  the  Sunday  multitude! 


VI. 

A  red  rose  in  her  raven  hair 
Whose  curls  were  held  by  plait  and  braid, 
The  bride  swept  down  the  oaken  stair, 
And  mantled  like  a  bashful  maid, 
As,  seated  in  the  waiting  chair, 
IS* 


346  THE  MISTRESS   OF  THE  MANSE. 

Behind  the  fragrant  urn,  she  poured 
The  nectar  of  the  morn's  repast ; 
But  fairer  lady,  fonder  lord, 
In  happier  hall  ne'er  broke  their  fast 
With  sweeter  bread,  at  prouder  board. 

And  then  they  rose  with  common  will, 

And  sought  the  parlor,  cool  and  dim. 

"Sing,  love!"   he  said.     "The  birds  grow  still, 

And  wait  with  me  to  hear  your  hymn." 

She  swept  a  low,  preluding  trill — 

A  spray  of  sound — across  the  keys 
That  felt  her  fingers  for  the  first ; 
And  then,  from  simplest  cadences, 
A  reverent  melody  she  nursed, 
And  gave  it  voice  in  words  like  these  : 

"  From  full  forgetfulness  of  pain, 
From  joy  to  opening  joy  again, 
With  bird  and  flower,  and  hill  and  tree, 
We  lift  our  eyes  and  hands  to  thee, 
To  greet  thee,  Father,  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Earth ! 

"  That  thou  dost  bathe  our  souls  anew 
With  balm  of  light  and  heavenly  dew, 
And  smilest  in  our  upward  eyes 
From  the  far  blue  of  smiling  skies, 
We  bless  thee,  Father,  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ! 

"  For  human  love  and  love  divine, 
For  love  of  ours  and  love  of  thine, 
For  heaven  on  earth  and  heaven  above — 
To  thee  and  us  twin  homes  of  love — 
We  thank  thee,  Father,  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ! 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  347 

"  O  dove-like  wings,  so  wide  unfurled 
In  brooding  calm  above  the  world  ! 
Waft  us  your  holy  peace,  and  raise 
The  incense  of  our  morning  praise 
Up  to  our  Father,  Lord  of  Heaven  and  Earth !  " 


VII. 

Full  fleetly  sped  the  morning  hours ; 
Then,  wide  upon  the  country  round 
A  tumult  of  melodious  powers 
In  tumult  of  melodious  sound 
Burst  forth  from  all  the  village  towers. 

With  blow  on  blow,  and  tone  on  tone, 
And  echoes  answering  everywhere  — 
Like  bugles  from  the  mountains  blown — 
Each  sought  to  whelm  the  burdened  air, 
And  make  the  silence  all  its  own. 

In  broad,  sonorous,  silver  swells 
The  air  was  billowed  like  the  sea  ; 
And  listening  ears  were  listening  shells 
That  caught  the  Sabbath  minstrelsy, 
And  sang  it  with  the  singing  bells. 

The  billows  heaved,  the  billows  broke, 
The  first  wild  burst  went  down  amain  ; 
The  music  fell  to  slower  stroke, 
And  in  a  rhythmic,  bold  refrain 
The  great  bells  to  each  other  spoke. 

Oh,  bravely  bronze  gave  forth  his  word, 
And  sharply  silver  made  reply, 


348  THE   MISTRESS   OF    THE    MANSE. 

And  every  tower  and  turret  stirred 
With  sounding  breath  and  converse  high, 
Or  paused  with  waiting  ear  and  heard. 

And  long  they  talked,  as  friend  to  friend  ; 
Then  faltered  to  their  closing  toll, 
Whose  long,  monotonous  repetend, 
From  every  music-burdened  bowl 
Poured  the  last  drop,  and  brought  the  end ! 


VIII. 

The  chapel's  chime  fell  slow  and  soft 
And  throngs  slow-marching  to  its  knoll 
From  village  home  and  distant  croft, 
With  careful  feet  and  reverent  soul 
Pressed  toward  the  open  door,  but  oft 

Turned  curious  and  expectant  eyes 
Upon  the  Manse  that  stood  apart. 
There  in  her  quiet,  bridal  guise 
Fair  Mildred  sat  with  shrinking  heart ; 
While  Philip,  bold  and  over-wise, 

And  knowing  naught  of  woman's  ways, 
Smiled  at  her  fears,  and  could  not  guess 
How  one  so  armored  in  his  praise, 
And  strong  in  native  loveliness, 
Could  dread  to  meet  his  people's  gaze. 

He  could  not  know  her  fine  alarm 
When  at  his  manly  side  she  stood, 
And,  leaning  faintly  on  his  arm — 
A  dainty  slip  of  womanhood — 
Walked  forth  where  every  girlish  charm 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  349 

Was  scanned  with  prying  gaze  and  glance, 
Among  the  slowly  moving  crowd 
That,  greedy  of  the  precious  chance, 
Read  furtively,  but  half  aloud, 
The  pages  of  their  new  romance. 

"A  child!"   And  Mildred  caught  the  word. 
"A  plaything!"     And  another  voice: 
"Fine  feathers,  and  a  Southern  bird!" 
And  still  one  more  :     "A  parson's  choice!  " 
And  trembling  Mildred  overheard. 

These  from  the  careless  or  the  dull — 
These  from  the  gossips  and  the  dolts — 
And  though  her  quickened  ear  might  cull 
From  out  their  whispered  thunderbolts 
A  "lovely!"   and  a  "beautiful!" 

And  though  sweet  mother-faces  smiled, 
And  bows  were  given  with  friendly  grace, 
And  many  a  pleasant  little  child 
Sought  sympathy  within  her  face, 
Her  aching  heart  was  not  beguiled. 

She  did  not  see — she  only  felt — 

As  up  the  staring  aisle  she  walked — 

The  critic  glances,  coldly  dealt 

By  those  who  looked,  and  bent,  and  talked  : 

And,  even,  when  at  last  she  knelt 

Alone  within  the  pastor's  pew, 
And  prayed  for  self-forgetfulness 
With  deep  humility,  she  knew 
She  gave  her  figure  and  her  dress 
To  careful  eyes  with  closer  view. 


350  THE  MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE. 


IX. 


At  length  she  raised  her  head,  and  tossed 
A  burden  from  her  heart  and  brain. 
She  would  have  love  at  any  cost 
Of  weary  toil  and  patient  pain, 
Of  rightful  ease  and  pleasure  lost ! 

They  could  not  love  her  for  his  sake  ; 
They  would  not,  and  her  heart  forgave. 
Why  should  a  woman  stoop  to  take 
The  poor  endowment  of  a  slave, 
And,  like  a  menial,  choose  to  make 

Her  master's  mantle  half  her  own  ? 

They  loved  her  least  who  loved  him  most ! 

They  envied  her  her  little  throne  ! 

He  who  was  cherished  by  a  host 

Was  hers  by  gift,  and  hers  alone  ; 

And  she  would  prove  her  woman's  right 
To  hold  the  throne  to  which  the  king 
Had  called  her,  clothing  her  with  white  ; 
And  never  would  she  show  her  ring 
To  win  a  loving  proselyte  ! 

These  were  the  thoughts  and  this  the  strife 

That  through  her  kindling  spirit  swept, 

And  wrought  her  purposes  of  life  ; 

While  powers  that  waked  and  powers  that  slept 

Within  the  sweet  and  girlish  wife, 

Sprang  into  energy  intense, 
At  touch  of  an  inspiring  chrism 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  351 

That  fell  on  her,  she  knew  not  whence, 

And  lifted  her  to  heroism 

Which  wrapped  her  wholly,  soul  and  sense. 


x. 

Meanwhile,  through  all  the  vaulted  space 

The  organ  sent  its  angels  out ; 

And  up  and  down  the  holy  place 

They  fanned  "the  cheeks  of  care  and  doubt, 

And  touched  each  worn  and  weary  face 

With  beauty  as  their  wings  went  by  : 
Then  sailed  afar  with  peaceful  sweep, 
And,  calling  heavenward  every  eye, 
Evanished  into  silence  deep — 
The  earth  forgotten  in  the  sky ! 

Then  by  the  sunlight  warmly  kissed, 
Far  up,  in  rainbow  glory  set, 
Rayed  round  with  gold  and  amethyst, 
She  saw  upon  the  great  rosette 
The  Saviour's  visage,  pale  and  trist. 

"  Oh,  Crown  of  Thorns  !  "  she  softly  breathed; 
"  Oh,  precious  crown  of  love  divine  ! 
Oh,  brow  with  trickling  life  enwreathed ! 
Oh,  piercing  thorns  and  crimson  sign  ! 
I  hold  you  mine  in  love  bequeathed. 

"  But  not  for  sake  of  these  or  thee  ! 
I  must  win  love  as  thou  hast  won. 
The  thorns  are  mine,  and  all  must  see, 
In  sacrifice,  and  service  done, 
The  loving  Lord  they  love  in  me." 


352  THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE. 


XL 


Then,  through  a  large  and  golden  hour 
She  listened  to  the  golden  speech 
Of  one  who  held  the  priceless  dower 
Of  love  and  eloquence,  that  reach 
And  move  the  hearts  of  men  with  power. 

Ah !  poor  the  music  of  the  choir 

That  voiced  the  Psalter  after  him  ! 

And  strong  the  prayer  that,  touched  with  fire, 

Flamed  upward,  past  the  seraphim, 

And  wrapped  the  throne  of  his  desire ! 

She  watched  and  heard  as  in  a  dream, 
When,  in  the  old,  familiar  ground 
Of  sacred  truth,  he  found  his  theme, 
And  led  it  forth,  until  it  wound 
Through  meadows  broad — a  swollen  stream 

That  flashed  and  eddied  in  the  light, 
And  fed  the  grasses  at  its  edge, 
Or  thundered  in  its  onward  might 
O'er  interposing  weir  and  ledge, 
And  left  them  hidden  in  the  white  ; 

Then  pressing  onward  to  the  eye, 

Grew  broader,  till  its  breadth  became 

A  solemn  river,  sweeping  by, 

That,  quick  with  ships  and  red  with  flame, 

Reached  far  away  and  kissed  the  sky ! 

Strong  men  were  moved  as  trees  are  bowed 
Before  a  swift  and  sounding  wind  ; 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  353 

And  sighs  were  long  and  sobs  were  loud, 
From  loving  saints  and  those  who  sinned, 
Among  the  deeply  listening  crowd. 


XII. 

And  Mildred,  in  the  whelming  tide 
Of  thought  and  feeling,  quite  forgot 
That  he  who  thus  had  magnified 
His  office,  held  a  common  lot 
With  her,  and  owned  her  as  his  bride. 

But  when,  at  length,  the  thought  returned 
That  she  was  his  in  plighted  truth, 
And  she  with  humbled  soul  discerned 
That,  though  her  youth  was  given  to  youth, 
And  love  by  love  was  fairly  earned, 

She  could  not  match  him,  wing-and-wing, 
Through  all  his  broad  and  lofty  range, 
And  thought  what  passing  years  might  bring- 
No  change  for  good,  but  only  change 
That  would  degrade  her  to  a  thing 

Of  homely  use  and  household  care, 
And  love  by  duty  basely  kept — 
She  bowed  her  head  upon  the  bare 
Cold  rail  that  hid  her  face,  and  wept, 
And  poured  her  passion  in  a  prayer. 

XIII. 

''Oh,  Father,  Father!"  thus  she  prayed: 
"Thou  know'st  the  priceless  boon  I  seek! 
Before  my  life,  abashed,  dismayed, 


354  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

I  stand,  with  hopeless  hands  and  weak, 
Of  him  and  of  myself  afraid ! 

"  Teach  me  and  lead  me  where  to  find, 
Beyond  the  touch  of  hand  and  lip, 
That  vital  charm  of  heart  and  mind 
Which,  in  a  true  companionship, 
My  feebler  life  to  his  shall  bind  ! 

"  His  ladder  leans  upon  the  sun ; 
I  cannot  climb  it :  give  me  wings  ! 
Grant  that  my  deeds,  divinely  done, 
May  be  appraised  divinest  things, 
Though  they  be  little,  every  one. 

"His  stride  is  strong;    his  steps  are  high: 

May  not  my  deeds  be  little  stairs 

That,  counted  swift,  shall  keep  me  nigh, 

Till  at  the  summit,  unawares, 

We  stand  with  equal  foot  and  eye  ? 

"  If  further  down  toward  Nature's  heart 
His  root  is  struck,  commanding  springs 
In  whose  deep  life  I  have  no  part, 
Send  me,  on  recompensing  wings, 
The  rain  that  gathers  where  thou  art ! 

"  Oh,  give  me  vision  to  divine 

What  he  with  delving  hand  explores  ! 

Feed  me  with  flame    that  shall  refine 

To  finest  gold  the  rugged  ores 

His  strong  hands  gather  from  the  mine  ! 

"  So,  dearest  Father,  shall  no  sloth, 
Or  weakness  of  my  weaker  soul, 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  355 

Delay  him  in  his  kingly  growth, 
Or  hold  him  meanly  from  the  goal 
That  shines  with  guerdon  for  us  both." 


XIV. 

Then  all  arose  as  if  a  spell 

Had  been  dissolved  for  their  release, 

The  while  the  benediction  fell 

Which  breathed  the  gentle  Master's  peace 

On  all  the  souls  that  loved  him  well. 

And  Philip,  coining  from  his  place, 
Like  Moses  from  the  mountain  pyre, 
Bore  on  his  brow  the  shining  grace 
Of  one  who,    in  the  cloud  and  fire, 
Had  met  his  Maker,  face  to  face. 

And  men  and  women,  young  and  old, 
Pressed  up  to  meet  him  as  he  came, 
And  children,  by  their  love  made  bold, 
Grasped  both  his  hands  and  spoke  his  name, 
And  in  their  simple  language  told 

Their  joy  to  see  his  face  once  more ; 
While  half  in  pleasure,  half  in  pain, 
His  bride  stood  waiting  at  her  door 
The  passage  of  the  friendly  train 
That  slowly  swept  the  crowded  floor. 

Half-bows  were  tendered  and  returned  ; 
And  welcomes  fell  from  lips  and  eyes ; 
But  in  her  heart  she  meekly  spurned 
The  love  that  came  in  love's  disguise 
Of  sympathy — the  love  unearned. 


356  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 


XV. 

Then  out  beneath  the   noon  day  sun 
Of  the  old  Temple,  cool  and  dim, 
She  walked  beside  her  chosen  one, 
And  lost  her  loneliness  in  him  ; 
But  hardly  was  her  walk  begun 

When,  straight  .before  her  in  the  street, 
With  tender  shock  her  eye  descried 
A  little  child,  with  naked  feet 
And  scanty  dress,  that,  hollow-eyed, 
Looked  up  and  begged  for  bread  to  eat. 

Nor  haughty  pride  nor  dainty  spleen 
Felt  with  her  heart  the  sickening  shock. 
She  took  the  hand  so  soiled  and  lean  ; 
And  silken  robe  and  ragged  frock 
Moved  side  by  side  across  the  green. 

She  looked  for  love,  and,  low  and  wild, 
She  found  it — looking,  too,  for  love  ! 
So  in  each  other's  eyes  they  smiled, 
As,  dark  brown  hand  in  snowy  glove, 
The  bride  led  home  the  hungry  child. 

And  men  and  women  in  amaze 

Paused  in  their  homeward   steps  to  see 

The  bride  retreating  from  their  gaze, 

Clasped  hand  in  hand  with  misery  ; 

Then  brushed  their  eyes,  and  went  their  ways. 

XVI. 

When  the  long  parley  found  a  close, 
And,  clean  and  kempt,  the  little  oaf — 


•  AS   SHE   WATCHED   HER    DOWN    THE  STREET." 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  357 

Disburdened  of  her  wants  and  woes, 
And  loaded  with  her  vvheaten  loaf — 
Went  forth  to  minister  to  those 

Who  sent  her  on  her  bitter  quest, 

The  bride  stood  smiling  at  her  door, 

And  in  her  happiness  confessed 

That  she  had  found  a  friend  ;    nay,  more — 

Had  entertained  a  heavenly  guest. 

And  as  she  watched  her  down  the  street, 
Her  brow  grown  bright  with  sunny  thought, 
Her  heart  o'erfilled  with  something  sweet, 
She  knew  the  vagrant  child  had  brought 
The  blessing  of  the  Paraclete. 

She  turned  from  out  the  blazing  noon, 
And  sought  her  chamber's  quiet  shade, 
Like  one  who  had   received  a  boon 
She  might  not  show,  but  which  essayed 
Expression  in  a  happy  croon. 

And  then,  outleaping  from  the  mesh 
Of  Memory's  net,  like  bird  or  bee, 
There  thrilled  her  spirit  and  her  flesh 
This  old  half-song,  half-rhapsody, 
That  sang,  or  said  itself,  afresh  : 


"  Poor  little  wafer  of  silver ! 

More  precious  to  me  than  its  cost ! 

It  was  worn  of  both  image  and  legend, 

But  priceless  because  it  was  lost. 

My  chamber  I  carefully  swept  ; 

I  hunted,  and  wondered,  and  wept  ; 


358  THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE. 

And  I  found  it  at  last  with  a  cry  : 
Oh,  dear  little  treasure  !  said  I  ; 
And  I  washed  it  with  tears  all  the  day  : 
Then  I  kissed  it,  and  put  it  away. 

"  Poor  little  lamb  of  the  sheepfold  ! 

Unlovely  and  feeble  it  grew  ; 

But  it  wandered  away  to  the  mountains, 

And  was  fairer  the  further  it  flew. 

I  followed  with  hurrying  feet 

At  the  call  of  its  pitiful  bleat, 

And  precious,  with  wonderful  charms, 

I  caught  it  at  last  in  my  arms, 

And  bore  it  far  back  to.  its  keep, 

And  kissed  it  and  put  it  to  sleep. 

"  Poor  little  vagrant  from  Heaven ! 

It  wandered  away  from  the  fold, 

And  its  weakness  and  danger  endowed  it 

With  value  more  precious  than  gold. 

Oh,  happy  the  day  when  it  came, 

And  my  heart  learned  its  beautiful  name  ! 

Oh,  happy  the  hour  when  I  fed 

This  waif  of  the  angels  with  bread  ! 

And  the  lamb  that  the  Shepherd  had  missed 

Was  sheltered  and  nourished  and  kissed !  " 


XVII. 

To  Philip,  Mildred  was  a  child, 
Or  a  fair  angel,  to  be  kept 
From  all  things  earthly  undefiled, — 
Who  on  his  loving  bosom  slept, 
And  only  waked  to  be  beguiled 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  359 

From  loneliness  and  homely  care 
By  love's  unfailing  ministry. 
No  toil  of  his  was  she  to  share, 
No  burden  hers,  that  should  not  be 
Left  for  his  stronger  hands  to  bear. 

His  love  enwrapped  her  as  a  robe, 
Which  seemed,  by  its  supernal  charm, 
To  shield  from  every  poisoned  probe 
Of  earthly  pain  and  earthly  harm 
This  one  choice  creature  of  the  globe. 

The  love  he  bore  her  lifted  him 
Into  a  bright,  sweet  atmosphere 
That  filled  with  beauty  to  the  brim 
The  world  beneath  him,  far  and  near, 
And  stained  the  clouds  that  draped  its  rim. 

Toil  was  not  toil,  except  in  name  ; 

Care  was  not  care,  but  only  means 

To  feed  with  holy  oil  the  flame 

That  warmed  her  soul,  and  lit  the  scenes 

Through  which  her  figure  went  and  came. 

Her  smile  of  welcome  was  his  meed ; 
Her  presence  was  his  great  reward  ; 
He  questioned  sadly  if,  indeed, 
He  loved  more  loyally  his  Lord, 
Or  if  his  Lord-  felt  greater  need. 

And  Mildred,  vexed,  misunderstood, 
Knew  all  his  love,  but  might  not  tell 
How  in  his  thought,  so  large  and  good, 
And  in  his  heart,  there  did  not  dwell 
The  measure  of  her  womanhood. 


360  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

She  knew  the  girlish  charm  would  fade  ; 
She  knew  the  rapture  would  abate  ; 
That  years  would  follow  when  the  maid, 
Merged  in  the  matron,  and  sedate 
With  change,  and  sitting  in  the  shade 

Of  a  great  nature,  would  become 
As  poor  and  pitiful  a  thing 
As  an  old  idol,  and  as  dumb, — 
A  clog  upon  an  upward  wing, — 
A  value  stricken  from  the  sum 

Which  a  true  woman's  hand  would  raise 
To  mighty  numbers,  and  endow 
With  kingly  power  and  crowning  praise. 
She  must  be  mate  of  his  ;  but  how  ? 
And,  dreaming  of  a  thousand  ways 

Her  hands  would  work,  her  feet  would  tread, 
She  thought  to  match  him  as  a  man  ! 
His  books  should  be  her  daily  bread  ; 
She  would  run  swiftly  where  he  ran, 
And  follow  closely  where  he  led. 


XVIII. 

Since  time  began,  the  perfect  day 
Has  robbed  the  morrow  of  its  wealth, 
And  squandered,  in  its  lavish  sway, 
The  balm  and  beauty  of  the  stealth, 
And  left  its  golden  throne  in  gray. 

So  when  the  Sunday  light  declined, 

A  cold  wind  sprang  and  shut  the  flowers 

Then  vagrant  voices,  undefined, 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  361 

Grew  louder  through  the  evening  hours, 
Till  the  old  chimney  howled  and  whined 

As  if  it  were  a  frightened  beast, 
That  witnessed  from  its  dizzy  post 
The  loathsome  forms  and  grewsome  feast 
And  hideous  mirth  of  ghoul  and  ghost, 
As  on  they  crowded  from  the  East. 

The  willow,  gathered  into  sheaves 

Of  scorpions  by  spectral  arms, 

Swung  to  and  fro,  and  whipped  the  eaves, 

And  filled  the  house  with  weird  alarms 

That  hissed  from  all  its  tortured  leaves. 

And  in  the  midnight  came  the  rain  ;— 

In  spiteful  needles  at  the  first; 

But  soon  on  roof  and  window-pane 

The  slowly  gathered  fury  burst 

In  floods  that  came,  and  came  again, 

And  poured  their  roaring  burden  out. 

They  swept  along  the  sounding  street, 

Then  paused,  and  then  with  shriek  and  shout 

Hurtled  as  if  a  myriad  feet 

Had  joined  the  dread  and  deafening  rout. 

But  ere  the  welcome  morning  broke, 
The  loud  wind  fell,  though  gray  and  chill 
The  drizzling  rain  and  drifting  smoke 
Drove  slowly  toward  the  westward  hill, 
Half  hidden  in  its  phantom  cloak. 

And  through  the  mist  a  clumsy  smack, 
Deep  loaded  with  her  clumsy  freight, 
16 


362  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

With  shifting  boom  and  frequent  tack, 
Like  a  huge  ghost  that  wandered  late, 
Reeled  by  upon  her  devious  track. 


XIX. 

So  Mildred,  with  prophetic  ken, 
Saw  in  the  long  and  rainy  day 
The  dreaded  host  of  friendly  men 
And  friendly  women,  kept  away, 
And  time  for  love,  and  book,  and  pen. 

But  while  she  looked,  with  dreaming  eyes 
And  heart  content,  upon  the  scene, 
She  saw  a  stalwart  man  arise 
Where  the  wild  water  lashed  the  green, 
And  pause  a  breath,  to   signalize 

Some  one  beyond  her  stinted  view  ; 
Then  turn  with  hurried  feet,  and  straight 
The  deep,  rain-burdened  grasses  through, 
And  through  the  manse's  open  gate, 
Pass  to  her  door.     At  once  she  knew 

That  some  faint  soul,  in  sad  extreme, 
Had  sent  for  succor  to  the  manse, 
And  knew  its  master  would  redeem 
To  sacred  use  the  circumstance 
That  made  such  havoc  of  her  scheme. 


XX. 

She  saw  the  quiet  men  depart, 
She  saw  them  leave  the  river-side, 
She  saw  them  brave  with  sturdy  art 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  363 

The  surges  of  the  angry  tide, 

And  disappear  ;    the  while  her  heart 

Sank  down  in  dismal  loneliness. 

Then  came  her   vexing  thoughts  again  ; 

And  quick,  as  if  she  broke  duress 

Of  heavy  weariness  or  pain, 

She  sought  the  study's  dim  recess, 

Where  rank  on  rank,  against  the  wall, 
The  mighty  men  of  every  land 
Stood  mutely  waiting  for  the  call 
Of  him  who,  with  his  single  hand, 
Had  bravely  met  and  mastered  all. 

The  gray  old  monarchs  of  the  pen 

Looked  down  with  calm,  benignant  gaze, 

And  Augustine  and  Origcn 

And  Ansel  justified  the  ways — 

The  wondrous  ways — of  God  with   men. 

Among  the  tall  hierophants 
Angelical  Aquinas  stood  ; 
While  Witsius  held  the  "  Covenants," 
And  Irensus,  wise  and  good, 
Couched  low  his  silver-bearded  lance 

For  strife  with  heresy  and  schism, 
And  Turretin  with  lordly  nod 
Gave  system  to  the  dogmatism 
That  analyzed  the  thought  of  God 
As  light  is  painted  by  a  prism. 

Great  Luther,  with  his  great  disputes, 
And  Calvin,  with  his  finished  scheme, 


364  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

And  Charnock,  with  his  "  Attributes," 
And  Taylor  with  his  poet's  dream 
Of  theologic  flowers  and  flutes, 

And  Thomas  Fuller,  old   and  quaint, 
And  Cudworth,  dry  with  dust  of  gold, 
And  South,  the  sharp  and  witty  saint, 
With  Howe  and  Owen — broad  and  bold — 
And  Leighton  still  without  the  taint 

Of  earth  upon  his  robe  of  white, 
Stood  side  by  side  with  Hobbes  and  Locke, 
And — braced  by  many  an  acolyte  — 
With  Edwards  standing  on  his  rock, 
And  all  New  England's  men  of  might, 

Whose  gifts  and  offices  divine 
Had  crowned   her  with  a  kingly  crown, 
And  solemn  doctors  from  the  Rhine, 
With  Fichte,  Kant,  and  Hegel,  down 
Through  all  the  long  and  stately  line  ! 

As  Mildred  saw  the  awful  host, 

She  felt  within  no  motive  stir 

To  realize  her  girlish  boast, 

And  knew  they  held  no  more  for  her 

Than  if  each  volume  were  a  ghost. 


XXI. 

She  sat  in  Philip's  vacant  chair, 
And  pondered  long  her  doubtful  way  ; 
And,  in  her  impotent  despair, 
Lifted  her  longing  eyes  to  pray, 
When  on  a  shelf,  far  up  and  bare, 


"  SHE  DRANK   WITH  PLEASED  AND  EAGER   FACE." 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  365 

She  saw  an  ancient  volume  lie ; 

And  straight  her  rising  thought  was  checked. 

What  were  its  dubious  treasures  ?     Why 

Had  it  been  banished  from  respect, 

And  from  its  owner's  hand  and  eye  ? 

The  more  she  gazed,  the  stronger  grew 
The  wish  to  hold  it  in  her  hand. 
Strange  fancies  round  the  volume  flew, 
And  changed  the  dust  their  pinions  fanned 
To  atmospheres  of  red  and  blue, 

That  blent  in  purple  aureole, — 
As  if  a  lymph  of  sweetest  life 
Stood  warm  within  a  golden  bowl, 
Crowned  with  its  odor-cloud,  and  rife 
With  strength  and  solace  for  her  soul !  " 

And  there  it  lay  beyond  her  arm, 
And  wrought  its  fine  and  wondrous  spell, 
With  all  its  hoard  of  good  or  harm, 
Till  curious    Mildred,  struggling  well, 
Surrendered  to  the  mighty  charm : 

The  steps  were  scaled  for  boon  or  bale, 
The  book  was  lifted  from  its  place, 
And,  bowing  to  the  fragrant  grail, 
She  drank  with  pleased  and  eager  face 
This  draught  from  off  an  Eastern  tale  : 


366  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 


SRLIM  AND    NOURMAHAL. 

SELIM,  the  haughty  Jehangir,  the  Conqueror  of  the  Earth, 
With    royal    pomps    and    pageantries    and    rites    of  festal 

mirth 
Was  set  to  celebrate  the  day — the  white  day — of  his  birth. 

His  red  pavilions,  stretching  wide,  crowned  all  with* globes 

of  gold, 

And  tipped  with  pinnacles  of  fire  and  streamers  manifold, 
Flamed  with  such    splendor  that    the  sun    at   noon  looked 

pale  and  cold  ! 

And  right  and  left,  along    the  plain,  far   as  the  eye    could 

gaze, 

His  nobles  and  retainers  who  were  tented  in  the  blaze, 
Kept  revel  high  in  honor  of  that  day  of  all  the  days. 

The  earth  was    spread,  the    walls    were    hung,  with    silken 

fabrics  fine, 
And  Arabesque  and    lotus-flower   bore    each    the  broidered 

sign 
Of  jewels  plucked  from    land  and    sea,  and  red  gold  from 

the  mine. 

Upon  his  throne  he  sat  alone,  half  buried  in  the  gems 
That  strewed    his    tapestries    like    stars,    and    tipped    their 

tawny  hems, 
And  glittered  with  the  glory  of  a  hundred  diadems. 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  367 

He  saw  from  his  pavilion  door  the  nodding  heron -plumes 
His  nobles  wore    upon    their  brows,  while,    from    the   rosy 

glooms 
Which  hid  his    harem,  came    low  songs,    on  wings  of  rare 

perfumes ! 

The  elephants,  a  thousand  strong,  had  passed  his  dream 
ing  eye, 

Caparisoned  with  golden  plates  on  head  and  breast  and 
thigh, 

And  a  hundred  flashing  troops  of  horse  unmarked  had 
thundered  by. 

He  sat  upon   old  Akbar's    throne,  the    heir    of   power  and 

fame  ; 

But  all  his  glory  was  as  dust,  and  dust  his  wondrous  name — 
Swept  into  air,  and  scattered  far,  by  one  consuming  flame  ! 

For  on  that  day  of  all  the  days,  and  in  that  festal  hour, 
He  sickened  with  his  glory  and    grew  weary  of  his  power, 
And  pined  to  bind   upon   his    breast   his    harem's  choicest 
flower. 

"Oh    Nourmahal !    oh    Nourmahal !    why.  sit   I   hece,"   he 

cried, — 
"  The  victim   of   these   gaudy    shows,  and  of  my  haughty 

pride, 
When  thou  art  dearer  to  my  soul  than  all  the  world  beside ! 

"  Thy  eyes  are    brighter    than    the    gems    piled  round  my 

gilded  seat ; 
Thy  cheeks  are  softer  than  the  silks  that    shimmer  at  my 

feet, 
And  purer  heart  than  thine  in  woman's    breast  hath  never 

beat! 


368  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

"  My  first  love — and  my  only  love — Oh  babe  of  Candahar  ! 
Torn  from  my  boyish  arms  at  first,  and,  like  a  silver  star 
Shining  within  another  heaven,  and  worshipped  from  afar, 

"Thou  art    my  own  at   last,  my  own!     I  pine    to  see  thy 

face  ; 
Come  to  me,  Nourmahal !  Oh  come,  and  hallow  with  thy 

grace 
The  glories  that  without  thy  love  are  meaningless  and 

base  ! " 

He  spoke  a  word,    and,  quick    as  light,  before    him,  lying 

prone 
A  dark-eyed  page,  with  gilded  vest  and  crimson-belted 

zone, 
Looked  up  with  waiting  ear  to  mark  the  message  from 

the  throne. 

"  Go  summon  Nourmahal,  my  queen;  and  when  her  radi 
ance  comes, 

Bear  my  command  of  silence  to  the  vinas  and  the  drums, 
And  for  your  guerdon  take  your  choice  of  all  these  gilded 
crumbs." 

He  tossed  a  handful  of   the  gems    down  where  his  minion 

lay, 
Who  snatched   a  jewel    from   the   drift,   and    swiftly   sped 

away 
With  his  command  to  Nourmahal,  who  waited  to  obey. 

But  needlessly  the  mandate  fell  of  silence  on  the  crowd, 
For   when    the    Empress    swept    the     path,    ten     thousand 

heads  were  bowed, 
And  drum  and    vina  ceased    their    din,  and    no  one  spoke 

aloud. 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  369 

As  comes   the  moon  from   out  the    sea  with  her  attendant 

breeze, 
As  sweeps  the    morning  up  the    hills    and  blossoms   in  the 

trees, 
So  Nourmahal  to  Selim  came  :  then  fell  upon  her  knees  ! 

The   envious   jewels     looked    at    her    with    chill,    barbaric 

stare, 
The  cloth-of-gold  she  knelt  upon  grew  lusterless  and 

bare, 
And  all  the  place  was  cooler  in  the  darkness  of  her  hair. 

And  while  she  knelt  in   queenly  pride    and  beauty  strange 

and  wild, 
And  held  her  breast   with    both  her    palms  and  looked  on 

him  and  smiled, 
She   seemed    no    more   of    common   earth,    but    Casyapa's 

child. 

He  bent  to  her   as  thus  she   smiled  ;    he  kissed    her  lifted 

cheek  ; 
"  Oh  Nourmahal,"  he  murmured  low,  "  more  dear  than  I 

can  speak, 
I'm  weary  of  my  lonely  life  :    give  me  the  rest  I  seek." 

She  rose  and  paced  the  silken  floor,  as  if  in  mad  caprice, 
Then  paused,  and   from    the    Empress    changed   to  impro- 

visatrice, 
And  wove  this    song— a   golden    chain— that   led    him  into 

peace  : 

"  Lovely  children  of  the  light, 
Draped  in  radiant  locks  and  pinions, — 
Red  and  purple,  blue  and  white — 
In  their  beautiful  dominions, 
16* 


370  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

On  the  earth  and  in  the  spheres, 
Dwell  the  little  glendoveers. 

"  And  the  red  can  know  no  change, 
And  the  blue  are  blue  forever, 
And  the  yellow  wings  may  range 
Toward  the  white  or  purple  never. 
But  they  mingle  free  from  strife, 
For  their  color  is  their  life. 

"  When  their  color  dies,  they  die, — 
Blent  with  earth  or  ether  slowly — 
Leaving  where  their  spirits  lie, 
Not  a  stain,  so  pure  and  holy 
Is  the  essence  and  the  thought 
Which  their  fading  brings  to  naught ! 

"Each  contented  with  the   hue 
Which  indues  his  wings  of  beauty, 
Red  or  yellow,  white  or  blue, 
Sings  the  measure  of  his  duty 
Thiough  the  summer  clouds  in  peace, 
And  delights  that   never  cease. 

"  Not  with  envy  love  they  more 

Locks  and  pinions  purple-tinted, 

Nor  with  jealousy  adore 

Those  whose  pleasures  are  unstinted, 

And  whose  purple  hair  and  wings 

Give  them  place  with  queens  and  kings. 

"When  a  purple  glendoveer 
Flits  along  the  mute  expanses, 
They  surround  him,  far  and  near, 
With  their  glancing  wings  and  dances, 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

And  do  honor  to  the  hue 
Loved  by  all  and  worn  by  few. 

"  In  the  days  long  gone,  alas  ! 
Two  upon  a  cloud,  low-seated, 
Saw  their  pinions  in  the  glass 
Of  a  silver  lake  repeated. 
One  was  blue  and  one  was  red, 
And  the  lovely  pair  were  wed. 

"  '  Purple  wings  are  very  fine,' 

Spoke  the  voice  of  Ruby,  gently  : 

'  Ay,'    said  Sapphire,  '  they're  divine  ! ' — • 

Looking  at  his  blue  intently. 

'  But  to  wish  for  change  is  vain,' 

Ruby  said :    '  We'll  not  complain.' 

"  Sapphire  stretched  his  loving  arms, 
And  she  nestled  on  his  bosom, 
While  his  heart  inhaled  her  charms 
As  the  sense  inhales  a  blossom  ; — 
Drank  her  wholly,  tint  and  tone, 
Blent  her  being  with  his  own. 

"  Rapture  passed,  they  raised  their  eyes, 
But  were  startled  into  clamor 
Of  a  marvellous  surprise  ! 
Was  it  color  !    was  it  glamour  ! 
Purple-tinted,  sweet  and  warm, 
Was  each  wing  and  folded  form  ! 

"  Who  had  wrought  it — how  it  came — 
These  were  what   the  twain  disputed. 
How  were  mingled  smoke  and  flame 
Into  royal  hue  transmuted  ? 


372  THE   MISTRESS    OF   THE   MANSE. 

Each  was  right,  and  each  was  wrong  ; 
But  their  quarrel  was  not  long, 

"  For  the  moment  that  their  speech 
Differed  o'er  their  little  story, 
Swiftly  faded  off  from  each 
Every  trace  of  purple  glory ; 
Blue  was  bluer  than  before, 
And  the  red  was  red  once  more. 

"  Then  they  knew  that  both  were  wrong, 
And  in  sympathy  of  sorrow 
Learned  that  each  was  only  strong 
In   the  power  to  lend  and  borrow, — 
That  the  purple  never  grew 
But  by  grace  of  red  to  blue. 

"  So,  embracing  in  content, 
Hearts  and  wings  again  united, 
Red  and  blue  in  purple  blent, 
And  their  holy  troth  replighted, 
Both,  as  happy  as  the  day, 
Kissed,  and  rose,  and  flew  away! 

"  And  for  twice  a  thousand  years, 
Floating  through  the  radiant  ether, 
Lived  the  happy  glendoveers, 
Of  the  other,  jealous  neither, — 
Sapphire  naught  without  the  red, 
Ruby  still  by  blue   bested. 

"  Then  when  weary  of  their  life, 
They  came  down  to  earth  at  even — 
Purple  husband,  purple  wife — 
From  the  upper  deeps  of  heaven, 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  373 

And  reclined  upon  the  grass, 
That  their  little  lives  might  pass. 

"Wing  to  wing  and  arms  enwreathed, 
Sinking  from  their  life's  long  dreaming 
Into  earth  their  souls  they  breathed  ; 
But  when  morning's  light  was  streaming, 
All  their  joys  and  sweet  regrets 
Bloomed  in  banks  of  violets  ! " 


As  from    its   dimpled  fountain,  at  its  own    capricious   will, 
Each   step    a   note   of  music,   and   each    fall    and   flash    a 

thrill, 
The  rill  goes  singing  to  the  meadow  levels  and  is  still, 

So  fell  from  Nourtnahal  her  song  upon  the  captive  sense  ; 
It  dashed   in  spray  against  the   throne,  it    tinkled    through 

the   tents, 
And  died  at  last  among  the  flowery  banks  of  recompense  ; 

For  when  great  Selim  marked  her  fire,  and  read  her  riddle 

well, 
And  watched  her  from  the  flushing  to  the  fading  of  the 

spell, 
He  sprang  forgetful  from  his  seat,  and  caught  her  as  she 

fell. 

He    raised    her    in    his   tender   arms  ;    he  bore   her   to   his 

throne  : 

"  No  more,  oh !  Nourmahal,  my  wife,  no  more  I  sit  alone  ; 
And  the  future  for  the  dreary  past  shall  royally  atone  !  " 

He   called    to    him    the    princes    and   the     nobles    of   the 
land, 


374  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE    MANSE. 

Then  took  the  signet-ring  from  his,  and  placed  it  on  her 
hand, 

And  bade  them  honor  as  his  own,  fair  Nourmahal's  com 
mand. 

And  on.  the  minted  silver  that  his  largess  scattered  wide, 
And  on  the  gold  of  commerce,  till  the  mighty  Selim  died, 
Her   name  and   his   in   shining  boss   stood   equal,  side  by 
side. 

XXII. 

The  opening  of  the  wondrous  tome 
Was  like  the  opening  of  a  door 
Into  a  vast  and  pictured  dome, 
Crowded,  from  vaulted  roof  to  floor, 
With  secrets  of  her  life  and  home. 

To  be  like  Philip  was  to  be 
Another  Philip — only  less  ! 
To  win  his  wit  in  full  degree 
Would  bear  to  him  but  nothingness, 
From  one  no  wiser  grown  than  he  ! 

If  blue  and  red  in  Hindostan 

At  home  were  also  red  and  blue, 

She  learned  that  woman  and  that  man 

Had  never  worn  the  royal  hue 

Till  blue  and  red  together  ran 

In  complement  of  each  to  each ; 

She  might  not  tint  his  life  at  all 

By  learning  wisdom  he  could  teach  ; 

So  what  she  gave,  though  poor  and  small, 

Should  be  of  that  beyond  his  reach. 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  375 

Where  Philip  fed,  she  would  not  feed  ; 
Where  Philip  walked,  she  would  not  go  ; 
The  books  he  read  she  would  not  read, 
But  live  her  separate   life,  and,  so, 
Have  sole  supplies  to  meet  his  need. 

He  held  his  mission  and  his  range  ; 
His  way  and  work  were  all  his  own  ; 
And  she  would  give  him  in  exchange 
What  she  could  win  and  she  alone, 
Of  life  and  learning,  fresh  and  strange. 


XXIII. 

While  thus  she  sat  in  musing  mood, 
Determining  her  life's  emprise, 
The  sunlight  flushed  the  distant  wood, 
Then,  coming  closer,  filled  her  eyes, 
And  glorified  her  solitude. 

The  clouds  were  shivered  by  the  lance 
Sped  downward  by  the  morning  sun, 
And  from  her  heart,  in  swift  advance, 
The  shadows  vanished,  one  by  one, 
Till  more  than  sunlight  filled  the  manse. 

She  closed  the  volume  with  a  gust 
That  sprent  the  light  with  powdered  gold  ; 
Then  placed  it  high  to  hide  and  rust 
Where,  curious  and  over-bold 
She  found  it,  lying  in  its  dust. 

Her  soul  was  light,  her  path  was  plain ; 
One  shadow  only  drooped  above, — 


3/6  THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE. 

The  shadow  of  a  heart  and  brain 
So  charged  with  overwhelming  love 
That  it  oppressed  and  gave  her  pain. 

The  modest  comb  that  kept  her  hair  ; 
To  Philip  was  a  golden  crown  ; 
And  every  ringlet  was  a  snare, 
And  every  hat,  and  every  gown 
And  slipper,  something  more  than  fair. 

His  love  had  glorified  her  grace, 
And  she  was  his,  and  not  her  own, — 
So  wholly  his  she  had  no  place 
Beside  him  on  his  lonely  throne, 
Or  share  in  love's  divine  embrace. 

But  still  she  saw  and  held  her  plan, 
And  fear  made  way  for  springing  hope. 
If  she  was  man's,  then  hers  was  man  : 
Both  held  their  own  in  even  scope  ; 
And  then  and  there  her  life  began. 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHIES. 


A  WIFE  is  like,  an  unknown  sea  ; — 
Least  known  to  him  who  thinks  he  knows 
Where  all  the  Shores  of  Promise  be, 
Where  lie  the  Islands  of  Repose, 
And  where  the  rocks  that  he  must  flee. 

Capricious  winds,  uncertain  tides, 
Drive  the  young  sailor  on  and  on, 
Till  all  his  charts  and  all  his  guides 
Prove  false,  and  vain  conceit  is  gone, 
And  only  docile  Love  abides. 

Where  lay  the  shallows  of  the  maid, 
No  plummet-line  the  wife  may  sound  ; 
Where  round  the  sunny  islands  played 
The  pulses  of  the  great  profound, 
Lies  low  the  treacherous  everglade. 

And,  as  he  sails,  he  is,  perforce, 
Discoverer  of  a  strange  new  world  ; 
And  finds,  whate'er  may  be  his  course, 
Green  lands  within  white  seas  impearled, 
With  streams  of  unsuspected  source 


378  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

Which  feed  with  gold  delicious  fruits, 

Kept  by  unguessed  Hesperides, 

Or  cool  the  lips  of  gentle  brutes 

That  breed  and  browse  among  the  trees 

Whose  wind-tossed  limbs  and  leaves  are  lutes. 

The  maiden  free,  the  maiden  wed, 
Can  never,  never  be  the  same. 
A  new  life  springs  from  out  the  dead, 
And,  with  the  speaking  of  a  name, 
A  breath  upon  the  marriage-bed, 

She  finds  herself  a  something  new — 

(Which  he  learns  later,  but  no  less)  ; 

And  good  and  evil,  false  and  true, 

May  change  their  features — who  can  guess  ? — 

Seen  close,  or  from  another  view. 

For  maiden  life,  with  all  its  fire, 
Is  hid  within  a  grated  cell, 
Where  every  fancy  and  desire 
And  graceless  passion,  guarded  well, 
Sits  dumb  behind  the  woven  wire. 

I 

Marriage  is  freedom  :  only  when 
The  husband  turns  the  prison-key 
Knows  she  herself  ;    nor  even  then 
Knows  she  more  wisely  well  than  he 
Who  finds  himself  least  wise  of  men. 

New  duties  bring  new  powers  to  birth, 

And  new  relations,  new  surprise 

Of  depths  of  weakness  or  of  worth, 

Until  he  doubt  if  her  disguise 

Mask  more  of  heaven,  or  more  of  earth. 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  3/9 

Tears  spring  beneath  a  careless  touch  ; 
Endurance  hardens  with  a  word  ; 
She  holds  a  trifle  with  a  clutch 
So  strangely,  childishly  absurd, 
That  he  who  loves  and  pardons  much 

Doubts  if  her  wayward  wit  be  sane, 
When  straight  beyond  his  manly  power 
She  stiffens  to  the  awful  strain 
Of  some  supreme  or  crucial  hour, 
And  stands  unblanched  in  fiercest  pain  ! 

A  jealous  thought,  a  petty  pique, 
Enwraps  in  gloom,  or  bursts  in  storm  ; 
She  questions  all  that  love  may  speak, 
And  weighs  its  tone,  and  marks  its  form, 
Or  yields  her  frailty  to  a  freak 

That  vexes  him  or  breeds  disgust ; 

Then  rises  in  heroic  flame, 

And  treads  a  danger  into  dust, 

Or  puts  his  doubting  soul  to  shame 

With  love  unfeigned  and  perfect  trust. 

Still  seas  unknown  the  husband  sails  ; 
Life-long  the  lovely  marvel  lasts  ; 
In  golden  calms  or  driving  gales, 
With  silent  prow  or  reeling  masts, 
Each  hour  a  fresh  surprise  unveils. 

The  brooding,  threatening  bank  of  mist 
Grows  into  groups  of  virid  isles, 
By  sea  embraced  and  sunlight  kissed, 
Or  breaks  into  resplendent  smiles 
Of  cinnabar  and  amethyst ! 


380  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

No  day  so  bright  but  scuds  may  fall, 
No  day  so  still  but  winds  may  blow  ; 
No  morn  so  dismal  with  the  pall 
Of  wintry  storm,  but  stars  may  glow 
When  evening  gathers,  over  all ! 

And  so  thought  Philip,  when,  in  haste 
Returning  from  his  lengthened  stay — 
The  river  and  the  lawn  retraced — 
He  found  his  Mildred  blithe  and  gay, 
And  all  his  anxious  care  a  waste. 

To  be  half  vexed  that  she  could  thrive 
Without  him  through  a  morning's  span, 
Upon  the  honey  in  her  hive, 
Was  but  to  prove  himself  a  man, 
And  show  that  he  was  quite  alive  ! 


II. 

A  sympathetic  word  or  kiss, 
(Mildred  had  insight  to  discern,) 
Though  grateful  quite,  is  quite  amiss, 
In  leading  to  the  life  etern 
The  soul  that  has  no  bread  in  this. 

The  present  want  must  aye  be  fed, 
And  first  relieved  the  present  care  : 
"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread" 
Must  be  recited  in  our  prayer 
Before  "forgive  us"  may  be  said. 

And  he  who  lifts  a  soul  from  vice, 
And  leads  the  way  to  better  lands  ; 
Must  part  his  raiment,  share  his  slice, 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  381 

And  oft  with  weary,  bleeding  hands, 
Pave  the  long  path  with  sacrifice. 

So  on  a  pleasant  summer  morn, 
Wrapped  in  her  motive,  sweet  and  safe, 
She  sought  the  homes  of  sin  and  scorn, 
And  found  her  little  Sunday  waif 
Ragged,  and  hungry,  and  forlorn. 

She  called  her  quickly  to  her  knee  ; 
And  with  her  came  a  motley  troop 
Of  children,  poor  and  foul  as  she, 
Who  gathered  in  a  curious  group, 
And  ceased  their  play,  to  hear  and  see. 

Tanned  brown  by  all  the  summer  suns, 
With  brutish  brows  and  vacant  eyes, 
They  drank  her  speech  and  ate  her  buns, 
While  she  behind  their  sad  disguise 
Beheld  her  dear  Lord's  "  little  ones." 

She  stood  like  Ruth  amid  the  wheat, 
With  ready  hand  and  sickle  keen, 
And  looked  on  all  with  aspect  sweet  ; 
For  where  she  only  thought  to  glean, 
She  found  a  harvest  round  her  feet. 

Ah  !  little  need  the  tale  to  write 

Of  garments  begged  from  door  to  door, 

Of  needles  plying  in  the  night, 

And  money  gathered  from  the  store 

Alike  of  screw  and  Sybarite, 

With  which  to  clothe  the  little  flock. 
She  went  like  one  sent  forth  of  God 


382  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

To  loose  the  bolts  of  heart  and  lock, 
And  with  the  smiting  of  her  rod 
To  call  a  flood  from  every  rock. 

And  little  need  the  tale  to  tell 
How,  when  the  Sunday  came  again, 
A  wondrous  change  the  group  befell, 
And  how  from  every  noisome  den, 
Responding  to  the  chapel  bell, 

They  issued  forth  with  shout  and  call, 
And  Mildred  walking  at  their  head, 
Who,  with  her  silken  parasol, 
Bannered  the  army  that  she  led, 
And  with  low  words  commanded  all. 

The  little  army  walked  through  smiles 
That  hung  like  lamps  above  their  march, 
And  lit  their  swart  and  straggling  files, 
While  bending  elm  and  plumy  larch 
Shaped  into  broad  cathedral  aisles 

The  paths  that  led  with  devious  trend 
To  where  the  ivied  chapel  stood. 
There  their  long  passage  found  its  end, 
And  there  they  gathered  in  a  brood 
Of  gentle  clamor  round  their  friend. 

A  score  pressed  in  on  either  side 

To  share  the  burden  of  her  care, 

And  hearts  and  house  gave  entrance  wide 

To  those  to  whom  the  words  of  prayer 

Were  stranger  than  the  curse  of  pride. 

And  Mildred  who,  without  a  thought 
Of  glory  in  her  week's  long  task, 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  383 

This  marvel  of  the  week  had  wrought, 
Had  earned  the  boon  she  would  not  ask, 
And  won  more  love  than  she  had  sought. 


III. 

As  two  who  walk  through  forest  aisles, 
Lit  all  the  way  by  forest  flowers, 
Divide  at  morn  through  twin  denies 
To  meet  again  in  distant  hours, 
With  plunder  plucked  from  all  the  miles, 

So  Philip  and  so  Mildred  went 
Into  their  walks  of  daily  life, — 
Parting  at  morn  with  sweet  consent, 
And— tireless  husband,  busy  wife — 
Together  when  the  day  was  spent, 

Bringing  the  treasures  they  had  won 
From  sundered  tracks  of  enterprise, 
To  learn  from  each  what  each  had  done, 
And  prove  each  other  grown  more  wise 
Than  when  the  morning  was  begun. 

He  strengthened  her  with  manly  thought 
And  learning,  gathered  frorn  the  great  ; 
And  she,  whose  quicker  eye  had  caught 
The  treasures  of  the  broad  estate 
Of  common  life  and  learning,  brought 

Her  gleanings  from  the  level  field, 

And  gave  them  gladly  to  his  hands, 

Who  had  not  dreamed  that  they  could  yield 

Such  sheaves,  or  hold  within  their  bands 

Such  wealth  of  lovely  flowers  concealed. 


384  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

His  grave  discourse,  his  judgment  sure, 
Gave  tone  and  temper  to  her  soul, 
While  her  swift  thoughts  and  vision  pure, 
And  mirth  that  would  not  brook  control, 
And  wit  that  kept  him  insecure 

Within  his  dignified  repose, 
Refreshed  and  quickened  him  like  wine. 
No  tender  word  or  dainty  gloze 
Could  give  him  pleasure  half  so  fine 
As  that  which  tingled  to  her  blows. 

He  gave  her  food  for  heart  and  mind, 
And  raised  her  toward  his  higher  plane  ; 
She  showed  him  that  his  eyes  were  blind  ; 
She  proved  his  lofty  wisdom  vain, 
And  held  him  humbly  with  his  kind. 


IV. 

Oh,  blessed  sleep  !    in  which  exempt 
From  our  tired  selves  long  hours  we  lie, 
Our  vapid  worthlessness  undreamt, 
And  our  poor  spirits  saved  thereby 
From  perishing  of  self-contempt ! 

We  weary  of  our  petty  aims  ; 
We  sicken  with  our  selfish  deeds  ; 
We  shrink  and  shrivel  in  the  flames 
That  low  desire  ignites  and  feeds, 
And  grudge  the  debt  that  duty  claims. 

Oh  sweet  forgetfulness  of  sleep  ! 
Oh  bliss,  to  drop  the  pride  of  dress, 
And  all  the  shams  o'er  which  we  weep, 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  385 

And,  toward  our  native  nothingness, 
To  drop  ten  thousand  fathoms  deep ! 

At  morning  only — strong,  erect — 
We  face  our  mirrors  not  ashamed  ; 
For  then  alone  we  meet  unflecked 
The  image  we  at  evening  blamed, 
And  find  refreshed  our  self-respect. 

Ah !  little  wonderment  that  those, 
Who  see  us  most  and  love  us  best, 
Find  that  a  true  affection  grows 
More  strong  and  sweet  in  tone  and  zest 
Through  frequent  partings  and  repose. 

Our  fruit  grows  dead  in  pulp  and  rind 
When  seen  and  handled  overmuch  ; 
The  roses  fade,  our  fingers  bind  ; 
And  with  familiar  kiss  and  touch 
The  graces  wither  from  our  kind. 

Man  lives  on  love,  at  love's  expense, 
And  woman,  so  her  love  be  sweet ; 
Best  honey  palls  upon  the  sense 
When  it  is  tempted  to  repeat 
Too  oft  its  fine  experience. 

And  Mildred,  with  instinctive  skill, 
And  loving  neither  most  nor  least, 
Stood  out  from  Philip's  grasping  will, 
And  gave,  where  he  desired  a  feast, 
The  taste  that  left  him  hungry  still. 

She  hid  her  heart  behind  a  mask, 
And  held  him  to  his  manly  course  ; 
17 


386  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

One  hour  in  love  she  bade  him  bask, 
And  then  she  drove,  with  playful  force, 
The  laggard  to  his  daily  task. 

They  went  their  way  and  kept  their  care, 

And  met  again — their  toil  complete, — 

Like  angels  on  a  heavenly  stair, 

Or  pilgrims  in  a  golden  street, 

Grown  stronger  one,  and  one  more  fair  ! 


v. 

As  one  worn  down  by  petty  pains, 
With  fevered  head  and  restless  limb, 
Flies  from  the  toil  that  stings  and  stains, 
And  all  the  cares  that  wearied  him, 
And  some  far,  silent  summit  gains  ; 

And  in  its  strong,  sweet  atmosphere, 
Or  in  the  blue,  or  in  the  green, 
Finds  his  discomforts  disappear, 
And  loses  in  the  pure  serene 
The  garnered  humors  of  a  year  ; 

And  sees  not  how  and  knows  not  when 
The  old  vexations  leave  their  seat, 
So  Philip,  happiest  of  men, 
Saw  all  his  petty  cares  retreat, 
And  vanish,  not  to  come  again. 

Where  he  had  thought  to  shield  and  serve, 
Himself  had  ministry  instead  ; 
He  heard  no  vexing  call  to  swerve 
From  larger  toil,  for  labors  sped 
By  Mildred's  finer  wit  and  nerve. 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  387 

In  deft  and  deferential  ways 
She  took  the  house  by  silent  siege ; 
And  Dinah,  warmest  in  her  praise, 
Grew,  unaware,  her  loyal  liege, 
And  served  her  truly  all  her  days. 

And  many  a  sad  and  stricken  maid, 
And  many  a  lorn  and  widowed  life 
That  came  for  counsel  or  for  aid 
To  Philip,  met  the  pastor's  wife, 
And  on  her  heart  their  burden  laid. 


VI. 


He  gave  her  what  she  took — her  will ; 
And  made  it  space  for  life  full-orbed. 
He  learned  at  last  that  every  rill 
Loses  its  freshness,  when  absorbed 
By  the  great  stream  that  turns  the  mill. 

With  hand  ungrasping  for  her  dower, 
He  found  its  royal  income  his  ; 
And  every  swiftly  kindling  power — 
Self-moved  in  its  activities- 
Becoming  brighter  every  hour. 

The  air  is  sweet  which  we  inspire 
When  it  is  free  to  come  and  go  ; 
And  sound  of  brook  and  scent  of  brier 
Rise  freshest  where  the  breezes  blow, 
That  feed  our  breath  and  fan  our  fire. 

That  love  is  weak  which  is  too  strong ; 
A  man  may  be  a  woman's  grave ; 


388  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

The  right  of  love  swells  oft  to  wrong, 
And  silken  bonds  may  bind  a  slave 
As  truly  as  a  leathern  thong. 

We  may  not  dine  upon  the  bird 
That  fills  our  home  with  minstrelsy ; 
The  living  vine  may  never  gird 
Too  firm  and  close  the  living  tree, 
Without  sad  sacrifice  incurred. 

The  crystal  goblet  that  we  drain 

Will  be  forever  after  dry  ; 

But  he  who  sips,  and  sips  again, 

And  leaves  it  to  the  open  sky, 

Will  find  it  filled  with  dew  and  rain. 

The  lilies  burst,  the  roses  blow 

Into  divinest  balm  and  bloom, 

When  free  above  and  free  below ; 

And  life  and  love  must  have  large  room, 

That  life  and  love  may  largest  grow. 

So  Philip  learned  (what  Mildred  saw), 
That  love  is  like  a  well  profound, 
From  which  two  souls  have  right  to  draw, 
And  in  whose  waters  will  be  drowned 
The  one  who  takes  the  other's  law. 


VII. 

Ambition  was  an  alien  word, 
Which  Mildred  faintly  understood  ; 
Its  poisoned  breathing  had  not  blurred 
The  whiteness  of  her  womanhood, 
Nor  had  its  blatant  trumpet  stirred 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  389 

To  quicker  pulse  her  heart  content. 
In  social  tasks  and  home  employ, 
She  did  not  question  what  it  meant ; 
But  bore  her  woman's  lot  with  joy 
And  sweetness,  wheresoe'er  she  went. 

If  ever  with  unconscious  thrill 
It  touched  her,  in  some  vagrant  dream, 
She  only  wished  that  God  would  fill 
With  larger  tide  the  goodly  stream 
That  flowed  beside  her,  strong  and  still. 

She  knew  that  love  was  more  than. fame, 
And  happy  conscience  more  than  love  ; — 
Far  off  and  wild,  the  wings  of  flame  ! 
Close  by,  the  pinions  of  the  dove 
That  hovered  white  above  her  name  ! 

She  honored  Philip  as  a  man, 
And  joyed  in  his  supreme  estate  ; 
But  never  dreamed  that  under  ban 
She  lives  who  never  can  be  great, 
Or  chieftain  of  a  crowd  or  clan. 

The  public  eye  was  like  a  knife 

That  pierced  and  plagued  her  shrinking  heart, 

To  be  a  woman,  and  a  wife, 

With  privilege  to  dwell  apart, 

And  hold  unseen  her  modest  life — 

Alike  from  praise  and  blame  aloof; 
And  free  to  live  and  move  in  peace 
Beneath  Love's  consecrated  roof — 
Was  boon  so  great  she  could  not  cease 
Her  thanks  for  the  divine  behoof. 


390  THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE. 

Black  turns  to  rust  and  blue  to  blight 
Beneath  the  shining  of  the  sun  ; 
And  e'en  the  spotless  robe  of  white, 
Worn  overlong,  grows  dim  and  dun 
Through  the  strange  alchemy  of  light. 

Nor  wife  nor  maiden,  weak  or  brave, 
Can  stand  and  face  the   public  stare, 
And  win  the  plaudits  she  may  crave, 
And  stem  the  hisses  she  may  dare, 
And  modest  truth  and  beauty  save. 

No  woman,  in  .her  soul,  is  she 
Who  longs  to  poise  above  the  roar 
Of  motley  multitudes,  and  be 
The  idol  at  whose  feet  they  pour 
The  wine  of  their  idolatry. 

Coarse  labor  makes  its  doer  coarse  ; 
Great  burdens  harden  softest  hands  ; 
A  gentle  voice  grows  harsh  and  hoarse 
That  warns  and  threatens  and  commands 
Beyond  the  measure  of  its  force. 

Oh  sweet,  beyond  all  speech,  to  feel 
Within  no  answer  to  the  drum, 
Or  echo  to  the  bugle-peal, 
That  calls  to  duties  which  benumb 
In  service  of  the  commonweal ! 

Oh  sweet  to  feel,  beyond  all  speech, 
That  most  and  best  of  human  kind 
Have  leave  to  live  beyond  the  reach 
Of  toil  that  tarnishes,  and  find 
No  tongue  but  Envy's  to  impeach  ! 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  391 

Oh  sweet,  that  most  unnoticed  deeds 
Give  play  to  fine,  heroic  blood  ! — 
That  hid  from  light,  and  shut  from  weeds, 
The  rose  is  fairer  in    its  bud 
Than  in  the  blossom  that  succeeds  ! 

He  is  the  helpless  slave  who  must  ; 
And  she  enfranchised  who  may  sit 
Unblamed  above  the  din  and  dust, 
Where  stronger  hands  and  coarser  wit 
Strive  equally  for  crown  and  crust. 

So  ran  her  thought,  and  broader  yet, 
Who  scanned  her  own  by  Philip's  pace ; 
And  never  did  the  wife  forget 
Her  grateful  tribute  for  the  grace 
That  charged  her  with  so  sweet  a  debt. 

So  ran  her  thought  ;    and  in  her  breast 
Her  wifely  pride  to  pity  grew, 
That  Philip,  by  his  Lord's  behest — 
To  duty  and  to  nature  true — 
Must  do  his  bravest  and  his  best, 

Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat, 
Where  all  might  praise  and  all  might  blame, 
And  thus  be  topic  of  the  street, 
And  see  his  fair  and  honest  name 
A   football,  kicked  by  careless  feet. 

She  loved  her  creed,  and  doubting  not 
She  read  it  well  from  Nature's  scroll, 
She  found  no  line  or  word  to  blot  ; 
But,  from  her  woman's  modest  soul, 
Thanked  her  Creator  for  her  lot. 


392  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 


VIII. 

He  who,  upon  an  Alpine  peak, 
Stands,  when  the  sunrise  lifts  the  East, 
And  gilds  the  crown  and  lights  the  cheek 
Of  largest  monarch  down  to  least, 
Of  all  the  summits  cold  and  bleak, 

Finds  sadly  that  it  brings  no  boon 
For  all  his  long  and  toilsome  leagues, 
And  chill  at  once  and  weary  soon, 
Rests  from  his  fevers  and  fatigues, 
And  waits  the  recompense  of  noon. 

For  then  the  valleys,  near  and  far, 
The  hillsides,  fretted  by  the  vine, 
The  glacier-drift,  the  torrent-scar 
Whose  restless  waters  shoot  and  shine, 
The  silver  tarn,  that  like  a  star 

Trembles  and  flames  with  stress  of  light, 
And  scattered  hamlet  and  chalet 
That  dot  with  brown,  or  paint  with  white, 
The  landscape  quivering  in  the  day, 
With  beauty  all  his  toil  requite. 

Mountains,  from  mountain  altitudes, 

Are  only  hills,  as  bleak  and  bare  ; 

And  he  whose  daring  step  intrudes 

Upon  their  grandeur,  and  the  rare 

Cold  light  or  gloom  that  o'er  them  broods, 


HE  WHO,  UPON  AN  ALPINE  PEAK.' 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  393 

Finds  that  with  even  brow  to  stand 
Among  the  heights  that  bade  him  climb, 
Is  loss  of  all  that  made  them  grand, 
While  all  of  lovely  and  sublime 
Looks  up  to  him  from  lake  and  land. 

Great  men  are  few,  and  stand  apart ; 
And  seem  divinest  when  remote. 
From  brain  to  brain,  and  heart  to  heart, 
No  thoughts  of  genial  commerce  float : 
Each  holds  his  own  exclusive  mart. 

And  when  we  meet  them,  face  to  face, 
And  hand  to  hand  their  greatness  greet, 
Our  steps  we  willingly  retrace, 
And  gather  humbly  at  their  feet, 
With  those  who  live  upon  their  grace. 

And  man  and  woman — mount  and  vale — 
Have  charms,  each  from  the  other  seen, — 
The  robe  of  rose,  the  coat  of  mail  : 
The  springing  turf,  the  black  ravine  : 
The  tossing  pines,  the  waving  swale  : 

Which  please  the  sight  with  constant  joy. 
Thus  living,  each  has  power  to  call 
The  other's  thoughts  with  sweet  decoy, 
And  one  can  rise  and  one  can  fall 
But  to  distemper  or  destroy. 

The  dewy  meadow  breeds  the  cloud 
That  rises  on  ethereal  wings, 
And  wraps  the  mountain  in  a  shroud 
From  which  the  living  lightning  springs 
And  torrents  pour,  that,  lithe  and  loud, 
17* 


394  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE    MANSE. 

Leap  down  in  service  to  the  plains, 
Or  feed  the  fountains  at  their  source  ; 
And  only  thus  the  mountain  gains 
The  vital  fulness  of  the  force 
That  fills  the  meadow's  myriad  veins. 

In  fair,  reciprocal  exchange 
Of  good  which  each  appropriates, 
The  meadow  and  the  mountain-range 
Nourish  their  beautiful  estates  ; 
And  lofty  wild  and  lowly  grange 

Thrive  on  the  commerce  thus  ordained  ; 
And  not  a  reek  ascends  the  rock, 
And  not  a  drift  of  dew  is  rained, 
But  eyrie-brood  or  tended  flock 
By  the  sweet  gift  is  entertained. 

A  meadow  may  be  fair  and  broad, 
And  hold  a  river  in  its  rest ; 
Or  small,  and  with  the  silver  gaud 
Of  a  lone  lakelet  on  its  breast, 
Or  but  a  patch,  that,  overawed, 

Clings  humbly  to  the  mountain's  hem  : 
It  matters  not  :    it  is  the  charm 
That  cheers  his  life,  and  holds  the  stem 
Of  every  flower  that  tempts  his  arm, 
Or  greets  his  snowy  diadem. 

Dolts  talk  of  largest  and  of  least, 
And  worse  than  dolts  are  they  who  prate 
Of  Beauty  captive  to  the  Beast ; 
For  man  in  woman  finds  his  mate, 
And  thrones  her  equal  at  his  feast. 


THE   MISTRESS    OF  THE   MANSE.  39$ 

She  matches  meekness  with  his  might, 
And  patience  with  his  power  to  act, — 
His  judgment  with  her  quicker  sight ; 
And  wins  by  subtlety  and  tact 
The  battles  he  can  only  fight. 

And  she  who  strives  to  take  the  van 
In  conflict,  or  the  common  way, 
Does  outrage  to  the  heavenly  plan, 
And  outrage  to  the  finer  clay 
That  makes  her  beautiful  to  man. 

All  this,  and  more  than  this,  she  saw 
Who  reigned  in  Philip's  house  and  heart 
Far  off,  he  seemed  without  a  flaw  ; 
Close  by,  her  tasteless  counterpart, 
And  slave  to  Nature's  common  law. 

To  climb  with  fierce,  familiar  stride 
His  dizzy  paths  of  life  and  thought, 
Would  but  degrade  him  from  her  pride, 
And  bring  the  majesty  to  naught 
Which  love  and  distance  magnified. 

If  she  should  grow  like  him,  she  knew 
He  would  admire  and  love  her  less  ; 
The  eagle's  image  might  be  true, 
But  eagle  of  the  wilderness 
Would  find  no  consort  in  the  view. 

A  woman,  in  her  woman's  sphere, 
A  loyal  wife  and  worshipper, 
She  only  thirsted  to  appear 
As  fair  to  him  as  he  to  her, 
And  fairer  still,  from  year  to  year. 


396  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE    MAMSE. 

And  he  who  quickly  learned  to  purge 
His  fancy  of  the  tender  whim 
That  she  was  floating  at  the  verge 
Of  womanhood,  half  hid  to  him, 
Saw  her  with  gracious  mien  emerge, 

And  stand  full-robed  upon  the  shore, 

With  faculties  and  charms  unguessed  ; 

With  wondrous  eyes  that  looked  before, 

And  hands  that  helped  and  words  that  blessed- 

The  mistress  of  an  alien  lore 

Beyond  the  wisdom  of  the  schools 
And  all  his  manly  power  to  win  ; 
With  handicraft  of  tricks  and  tools 
That  conjured  marvels  with  a  pin, 
And  miracles  with  skeins  and  spools ! 

She  seemed  to  mock  his  dusty  dearth 
With  flowers  that  sprang  beneath  his  e.yes  ; 
Till  all  he  was,  seemed  little  worth, 
And  she  he  deemed  so  little  wise, 
Became  the  wisest  of  the  earth. 

In  all  the  struggles  of  his  soul, 
And  all  the  strifes  his  soul  abhorred, 
She  shone  before  him  like  a  goal — 
A  shady  bower  of  fresh  reward — 
A  shallop  riding  in  the  mole, 

That  waited  with  obedient  helm 
To  bear  him  over  sparkling  seas, 
Into  a  new  and  fragrant  realm, 
Before  the  vigor  of  a  breeze 
That  drove,  but  might  not  overwhelm. 


•AND  STRETCHES  ALL  ITS  STUNTED  LIMBS 
LANDWARD  AND   HEAVENWARD." 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  397 


IX. 


To  symmetry  the  oak  is  grown 
Which  all  winds  visit  on  the  lea, 
While  that  which  lists  the  monotone 
Of  the  long  blast  that  sweeps  the  sea, 
And  answers  to  its  breath  alone, 

Turns  with  aversion  from  the  breeze, 
And  stretches  all  its  stunted    limbs 
Landward  and  heavenward,  toward  the  trees 
That  listen  to  a  thousand  hymns, 
And  grow  to  grander  destinies. 

Man  may  not  live  on  whitest  loaves, 
With  all  of  coarser  good  dismissed  ; 
He  pines  and  starves  who  never  roves 
Beyond  the  holy  eucharist, 
To  gather  of  the  fields  and  groves. 


And  he  who  seeks  to  fill  his 
With  solace  of  a  single  friend, 
Will  find  refreshment  but  in  part, 
Or,  sadder  still,  will  find  the  end 
Of  all  his  reach  of  thought  and  art. 

They  who  love  best  need  friendship  most  ; 

Hearts  only  thrive  on  varied  good  ; 

And  he  who  gathers  from  a  host 

Of  friendly  hearts  his  daily  food, 

Is  the  best  friend  that  we  can  boast. 


398  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

She  left  her  husband  with  his  friends  ; 
She  called  them  round  him  at  her  board  ; 
And  found  their  culture  made  amends 
For  all  the  time  that,  from  her  hoard, 
She  spared  him  for  these  nobler  ends. 

He  was  her  lover  ;    that  sufficed  : 
His  home  was  in  the  Holy  Place 
With  that  of  the  Beloved   Christ. 
And  friendship  had  no  subtle  grace 
By  which  his  love  could  be  enticed. 

Of  all  his  friends,  she  was  but  one  : 
She  held  with  them  a  common  field. 
Exclusive  right — with  love   begun — 
Ended  with  love,  and  stood  repealed, 
Leaving  his  friendship  free  to  run 

Toward  man  or  woman,  all  unmissed. 
She  knew  she  had  no  right  to  bind 
His  friendship  to  her  single  wrist, 
So  long  as  love  was  true  and  kind, 
And  .made  her  its  monopolist. 

No  time  was  grudged  with  jealous  greed 
Which  either  books  or  friendship  claimed. 
He  was  her  friend,  and  she  had  need 
Of  all — unhindered  and  unblamed — 
That  he  could  win,  through  word  or  deed. 

Her  friend  waxed  great  as  grew  the  man  ; 
Her  temple  swelled  as  rose  her  priest — 
With  power  to  bless  and  right  to  ban  ; — 
And  all  who  served  him,  most  or  least, — 
From  chorister  and  sacristan 


THE    MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  399 

To  those  whose  frankincense  and  myrrh 
Perfumed  the  sacred  courts  with  alms, — 
Were  gracious  ministers  to  her, 
Who  found  the  largess  in  her  palms, 
And  him  the  friendly  almoner. 


x. 


The  river  of  their  life  was  one  ; 
The  shores  down  which  they  passed  were  two : 
One  mirrored  mountains,  huge  and  dun, 
The  other  crimped  the  green  and  blue, 
And  sparkled  in  the  kindly  sun  ! 

Twin  barks,  with  answering  flags,  they  moved 
With  even  canvas  down  the  stream, 
In  smooth  or  ruffled  waters  grooved, 
And  found  such  islands  in  their  dream 
As  rest  and  loving  speech  behooved. 

Ah  fair  the  goodly  gardens  smiled 
On  Philip  at  his  rougher  strand  ! 
And  grandly  loomed  the  summits,  isled 
In  seas  of  cloud,  to  her  who  scanned 
From  her  far  shore  the  lofty  wild. 

Two  lives,  two  loves — both  self-forgot 
In  loyal  homage  to  their  oath; 
Two  lives,  two  loves,  but  living  not 
By  ministry  that  reached  them  both, 
In  service  of  a  common  lot, 


400  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

They  sailed  the  stream ;    and  every  mile 
Broadened  with  beauty  as  they  passed  ; 
And  fruitful  shore  and  trysting-isle, 
And  all  love's  intercourse  were  glassed 
And  blessed  in  Heaven's  benignant  smite. 


'  THE   FAIREST   TINT  WAS  BUT  A   STAIN. 
UPON  THE  SNOW,   THAT  QUENCHED  THE   WOOD.' 


LOVE'S    CONSUMMATIONS. 

THE  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came  ; 
The  world  swung  over  toward  the  night ; 
The  forests  robed  themselves  in  flame, 
Then  faded  slowly  into  white  ; 
And  set  within  a  crystal  frame 

Of  frozen  streams,  the  shaggy  boles 
Of  oak  and  elm,  with  leafless  crowns, 
Were  painted  stark  upon  the  knolls  ; 
And  cots  and  villages  and  towns 
On  virgin  canvas  glowed  like  coals 

In  tawny  red,  or  strove  in  vain 

To  shame  the  white  in  which  they  stood. 

The  fairest  tint  was  but  a  stain 

Upon  the  snow,  that  quenched  the  wood, 

And  paved  the  street,  and  draped  the  plain  1 


II. 

Oh !  Southern  cheeks  are  quick  to  feel 
The  magic  finger  of  the  frost ; 
And  Mildred  heard  but  one  long  peal 
From  the  fierce  Arctic,  which  embossed 
Her  window-panes,  and  set  the  seal 


402  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

Of  cold  on  all  her  eye  beheld, 

When  through  her  veins  there  swept  new  fire, 

And,  in  her  answering  bosom,  swelled 

New  purposes  and  new  desire, 

And  force  to  higher  deeds  impelled. 

Ah  !   well  for  her  the  languor  cast 
That  followed  from  her  Southern  clime ! 
The  time  would  come — was  coming  fast, — 
Love's  consummated,  crowning  time — 
Of  which  her  heart  had  antepast  ! 

A  strange  new  life  was  in  her  breast ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  wondrous  dreams ; 
She  sailed  all  whiles  from  crest  to  crest 
Of  a  broad  ocean,  through  whose  gleams 
She  saw  an  island  wrapped  in  rest ! 

And  as  she  drove  across  the  sea, 
Toward  the  fair  port  that  fixed  her  gaze, 
Her  life  was  like  a  rosary, 
Whose  slowly  counted  beads  were  days 
Of  prayer  for  one  that  was  to  be ! 


III. 

Oh  roses,  roses !     Who  shall  sing 

The  beauty  of  the  flowers  of  God ! 

Or  thank  the  angel  from  whose  wing  . 

The  seeds  are  scattered  on  the  sod 

From  which  such  bloom  and  perfume  spring ! 

Sure  they  have  heavenly  genesis 
Which  make  a  heaven  of  every  place  ; 
Which  company  our  bale  and  bliss, 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  403 

And  never  to  our  sinning  race 
Speak  aught  unhallowed,  or  amiss! 

When  love  is  grieved,  their  buds  atone  ; 
When  love  is  wed,  their  forms  are  near  ; 
They  blend  their  breathing  with  the  moan 
Of  love  when  dying,  and  the  bier 
Is  white  with  them  in  every  zone. 

No  spot  is  mean  that  they  begem  ; 
No  nosegay  fair  that  holds  them  not ; 
They  melt  the  pride  and  stir  the  phlegm 
Of  lord  and  churl,  in  court  and  cot, 
And  weave  a  common  diadem 

For  human  brows  where'er  they  grow. 

They  write  all  languages  of  red, 

They  speak  all  dialects  of  snow, 

And  all  the  words  of  gold  are  said 

With  fragrant  meanings  where  they  blow ! 

Oh  sweetest  flowers  !     Oh  flowers  divine ! 
In  which  God  conies  so  closely  down, 
We  gather  from  his  chosen  sign 
The  tints  that  cluster  in  his  crown — 
The  perfume  of  his  breath  benign  ! 

Oh,  sweetest  flowers !     Oh,  flowers  that  hold 

The  fragrant  life  of  Paradise 

For  a  brief  day,  shut  fold  in  fold, 

That  we  may  drink  it  in  a  trice, 

And  drop  the  empty  pink  and  gold ! 

Oh  sweetest  flowers,  that  have  a  breath 
For  every  passion  that  we  feel ! 


404  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

That  tell  us  what  the  Master  saith 
Of  blessing,  in  our  woe  and  weal, 
And  all  events  of  life  and  death ! 


IV. 

The  time  of  roses  came  again ; 
And  one  had  bloomed  within  the  manse,- 
Bloomed  in  a  burst  of  midnight  pain, 
And  plumed  its  life  in  fair  expanse, 
Beneath  love's  nursing  sun  and  rain. 

Such  tendance  ne'er  had  flower  before ! 
Such  beauty  ne'er  had  flower  returned! 
Found  on  that  distant  island-shore, 
Whose  secret  she  at  last  had  learned, 
And  made  her  own  for  evermore, 

Mildred  consigned  it  to  her  breast ; 
And  though  she  knew  it  took  its  hue 
From  her,  it  seemed  the  Lord's  bequest,- 
Still  sparkling  with  the  heavenly  dew, 
And  still  with  heavenly  beauty  dressed. 

Oh,  roses !   ye  were  wondrous  fair 

That  summer  by  the  river  side ! 

For  hearts  were  blooming  everywhere, 

In  sympathy  of  love  and  pride, 

With  that  which  came  to  Mildred's  care. 

And  rose  as  red  as  rose  could  be 
Was  Philip's  heart  with  joy  abloom> 
That  cast  its  fragrance  far  and  free, 
And  filled  his  lonely,  silent  room 
With  rapture  of  paternity  ! 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE  MANSE.  4°5 

V. 

The  evening  fell  on  field  and  street ; 

The  glow-worm  lit  his  phosphor  lamp, 

For  fairy  forms    and  fairy  feet, 

That  gathered  for  their  nightly  tramp 

Where  grass  was  green  and  flowers  were  sweet. 

In  devious  circles,  round  and  round, 
The  night-hawk  coursed  the  twilight  sky, 
Or  shot  like  lightning  the  profound, 
With  breezy  thunder  in  the  cry 
That  marked  his  furious  rebound  ! 

The  zephyrs  breathed  through  elm  and  ash, 
From  new-mown  hay  and  heliotrope, 
And  came  through  Philip's  open  sash 
With  sheen  of  stars  that   lit  the  cope, 
And  twinkling  of  the  fire-fly's  flash. 

He  heard  the  baby's  weary  plaint  ; 
He  heard  the  mother's  soothing  words ; 
And  sitting  in  his  hushed  restraint, 
One  voice  was  murmur  of  the  birds, 
And  one  the  hymning  of  a  saint ! 

And  as  he  sat  alone,  immersed 

In  the  fond  fancies  of  the  time, 

Her  voice  in  mellow  music  burst, 

And  by  a  rhythmic  stair  of  rhyme 

Led  down  to  sleep  the  child  she  nursed. 

"  Rockaby,  lullaby,  bees  on  the  clover! — 
Crooning  so  drowsily,  crying  so  low — 
Rockaby,  lullaby,  dear  little  rover ! 


406  THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE   MANSE. 

Down  into  wonderland — 
Down  to  the  under-land — 

Go,  oh  go  ! 
Down  into  wonderland  go ! 

"  Rockaby,  lullaby,  rain  on  the  clover! 
Tears  on  the  eyelids  that  struggle  and  weep  ! 
Rockaby,  lullaby — bending  it  over  ! 

Down  on  the  mother  world, 

Down  on  the  other  world  ! 

Sleep,  oh  sleep  ! 
Down  on  the  mother-world  sleep ! 

"Rockaby,  lullaby,  dew  on  the  clover! 
Dew  on  the  eyes  that  will  sparkle  at  dawn ! 
Rockaby,  lullaby,  dear  little  rover ! 

Into  the  stilly  world ! 

Into  the  lily  world, 
Gone  !  oh  gone ! 
Into  the  lily  world,  gone  ! " 


VI. 


They  sprouted  like  the  prophet's  gourd ; 
They  grew  within  a  single  night  ; 
So  swift  his  busy  years  were  scored 
That,  ere  he  knew,  his  hope  was  white 
With  harvest  bending  round  his  board  ! 

And  eyes  were  black  and  eyes  were  blue, 
And  blood  of  mother  and  of  sire, 
Each  to  its  native  humor  true, 
Blent  Northern  force  with  Southern  fire 
In  strength  and  beauty,  strange  and  new. 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  40/ 

The  Gallic  brown,  the  Saxon  snow, 
The  raven  locks,  the  flaxen  curls, 
Were  so  commingled  in  the  flow 
Of  the  new  blood  of  boys  and  girls, 
That  Puritan  and  Huguenot 

In  love's  alembic  were  advanced 

To  higher  types  and  finer  forms  ; 

And  ardent  humors  thrilled  and  danced 

Through  veins  that  tempered  all  their  storms, 

Or  held  them  in  restraint  entranced. 

Oh !    many  times,  as  flew  the  years, 
The  dainty  cradle-song  was  sung  ; 
And  bore  its  balm  to  restless  ears, 
As  one  by  one  the  nested  young 
Slept  in  their  willows  and  their  tears. 

To  each  within  the  reedy  glade, 

Hid  from  some  tyrant's  cruel  schemes, 

It  was  a  princess,  or  her  maid, 

Who  bore  him  to  the  realm  of  dreams, 

And  made  him  seer  by  accolade 

Of  flaming  bush  and  parted  deep, 
Of  gushing  rocks  and  raining  corn, 
And  fire  and  cloud,  and  lengthened  sweep 
Of  thousands  toward  the  promised  morn, 
Across  the  wilderness  of  sleep  ! 


VII. 

The  years  rolled  on  in  grand  routine 
Of  useful  toil  and  chastening  care, 


408  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

Till  Philip,  grown  to  heights  serene 

Of  conscious  power,  and  ripe  with  prayer. 

Took  on  the  strong  and  stately  mien 

Of  one  on  whom  had  been  conferred 
The  doing  of  a  knightly  deed ; 
And  waited  till  it  bade  him  gird 
The  harness  on  him  and  his  steed, 
For  man  and  for  his  Master's  word. 

His  name  was  spoken  far  and  near, 
And  sounded  sweet  on  every  tongue  ; 
Men  knew  him  only  to  revere, 
And  those  who  knew  him  nearest,  flung 
Their  hearts  before  his  grand  career, 

And  paved  his  way  with  loyal  trust. 
He  was  their  strongest,  noblest  man, — 
Sworn  foe  of  every  selfish  lust, 
And  brave  to  do  as  wise  to  plan, 
And  swift  to  judge  as  pure  and  just. 


VIII. 

Against  such  foil  the  mistress  stood — 
A  pearl  upon  a  cross  of  gold — 
White  with  consistent  womanhood, 
And  fixed  with  unrelaxing  hold 
Upon  the  centre  of  the  rood  ! 

Through  all  those  years  of  loving  thrift, 
Nor  blame  nor  discord  marred  their  lot ; 
Each  to  the  lover-life  was  gift ; 
And  each  was  free  from  blur  or  blot 
That  called  for  silence  or  for  shrift. 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  409 

Both  bore  the  burden  they  upheld 

With  patient  hands  along  the  road  ; 

And  though,  with  passing  years,  it  swelled 

Until  it  grew  a  weary  load, 

Nor  tongue  complained,  nor  heart  rebelled. 

At  length  the  time  of  trial  came, 
And  they  were  tried  as  gold  is  tried. 
Their  peace  of  life  went  up  in  flame, 
And  what  was  good  was  vilified, 
And  what  was  blameless  came  to  blame. 


IX. 

The  Southern  sky  was  dun  with  cloud  ; 
And  looming  lurid  o'er  its  edge 
The  brows  of  awful  forms  were  bowed, 
That  forged  in  flame  the  fateful  wedge 
Which  waited  in  the  angry  shroud 

The  banner  of  the  storm  unfurled, 

And  all  the  powers  of  death  arrayed 

In  black  battalions,  to  be  hurled 

Down  through  the  rack — a  blazing  blade — 

To  cleave  the  realm,  and  shake  the  world ! 

The  North  was  full  of  nameless  dread ; 
Wild  portents  flamed  from  out  the  pole  ; 
Old  scars  on  Freedom's  bosom  bled, 
And  sick  at  heart  and  vexed  of  soul 
She  tossed  in  fever  on  her  bed ! 

Pale  Commerce  hid  her  face  and  whined ; 
The  arms  of  Toil  were  paralyzed  ; 
i3 


4IO  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

The  wise  were  of  divided  mind, 

And  they  who  counselled  and  advised 

Were  sightless  leaders  of  the  blind. 

Men  lost  their  faith  in  good  and  great ; 
No  captain  sprang,  or  prophet-bard, 
To  win  their  trust,  and  save  the  state 
From  the  wild  storm  that,  like  a  pard, 
On  quivering  haunches  lay  in  wait ! 

The  loyal  only  were  not  brave  ; 
E'en  Peace  became  a  cringing  dog ; 
The  patriot  paltered  like  a  knave, 
And  partisan  and  demagogue 
Quarrelled  o'er  Freedom's  waiting  grave. 


x. 

Amid  the  turmoil  and  disgrace, 

The  voice  was  clear,  from  first  to  last, 

Of  one  who,  in  the  desert  place 

Of  barren  counsels,  held  him  fast 

His  shepherd's  crook,  and  made  it  mace 

To  bear  before  the  Great  Event 
Whose  harbinger  he  chose  to  be, 
And  called  on  all  men  to  repent, 
And  build  a  way  from  sea  to  sea, 
For  Freedom's  full  enfranchisement. 

For  Philip,  to  his  conscience  leal, 
Conceived  that  God  had  chosen  him 
With  Treason's  sophistries  to  deal, 
And  grapple  with  the  Anakim 
Whose  menace  shook  the  commonweal. 


THE   MISTRESS    OF   THE   MANSE.  411 

His  pulpit  smoked  beneath  his  blows  ; 
His  voice  was  heard  in  hall  and  street ; 
A  thousand  friends  became  his  foes, 
And  pews  were  empty  or  replete, 
With  passion's  ebbs  and  overflows. 

They  trailed  his  good  name  in  the  mire; 
They  spat  their  venom  in  his  eyes  ; 
They  taunted  him  with  mad  desire 
For  power,  and  gathered  his  replies 
In  braver  words  and  fiercer  fire. 

He  was  a  wolf,  disguised  in  wool ; 
He  was  a  viper  in  the  breast ; 
He  was  a  villain,  or  the  tool 
Of  greater  villains  ;   at  the  best, 
A  blind  enthusiast  and  fool ! 

As  swelled  the  tempest,  rose  the  man; 
He  turned  to  sport  their  brutal  spleen ; 
And  none  could  choose  be  slow  to  span 
The  difference  that  lay  between 
A  Prospero  and  a  Caliban ! 


XI. 

She  would  not  move  him  otherwise, 
Although  her  heart  was  sad  and  sore. 
That  which  was  venal  in  his  eyes 
To  her  a  lovely  aspect  wore, 
And  helped  to  weave  the  thousand  ties 

Which  bound  her  to  her  youth,  and  all 
The  loves  that  she  had  left  behind 
When,  from  her  father's  stately  hall, 


412  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

She  came,  her  Northern  home  to  find, 
With  him  who  held  her  heart  in  thrall. 

In  the  dark  pictures  which  he  drew 
Of  instituted  shame  and  wrong, 
She  saw  no  figures  that  she  knew, 
But  a  confused  and  hateful  throng 
Of  forms  that  in  his  fancy  grew. 

Her  father's  rule,  benign  and  mild, 
Was  all  of  slavery  she  had  known  ; 
To  her,  an  Afric  was  a  child — 
A  charge  in  other  ages  thrown 
On  Christian  honor,  from  the  wild 

Of  savagery  in  which  the  Fates 

Had  given  him  birth  and  dwelling-place — 

And  so,  descending  through  estates 

Of  gentle  vassalage,  his  race 

Had  come  to  men  of  later  dates. 

Black  hands  her  baby  form  had  dressed  ; 
Black  hands  her  blacker  hair  had  curled  ; 
And  she  had  found  a  dusky  breast 
The    sweetest  breast  in  all  the  world 
When  she  was  thirsty  or  at  rest. 

There  was  no  touch  of  memory's  chords — 

No  picture  on  her  blooming  wall, — 

Of  life  upon  the  sunny  swards 

They  reproduced, — but  brought  recall 

Of  happy  slaves  and  gentle  lords. 

And  Philip  charged  a  deadly  sin 
Upon  that  beautiful  domain, 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  413 

Condemning  all  who  dwelt  therein, 
And  branding  with  the  awful  stain 
Her  friends,  and  all  her  dearest  kin. 

Yet  still  she  knew  his  conscience  clear, — 

That  he  believed  his  voice  was  God's  ; 

And  listened  with  a  voiceless  fear 

To  the  portentous  periods 

In  which  he  preached  the  chosen  year 

Of  expiation  and  release, 
And  prophesied  that  Slavery's  power, 
Grown  great  apace  with  crime's  increase, 
Before  the  front  of  Right  should  cower, 
And  bid  God's  people  go  in  peace  ! 


XII. 

The  fierce  invectives  of  his  tongue 
Frayed  every  day  her  wounds  afresh, 
And  with  new  pain  her  bosom  wrung, 
For  they  envenomed  kindred  flesh, 
To  which  in  sympathy  she  clung. 

Yet  not  a  finger  did  she  lift 
To  hold  him  from  his  fateful  task, 
Though  Satan  oft  essayed  to  sift 
Her  soul  as  wheat,  and  bade  her  ask 
Somewhat  from  conscience  as  a  gift. 

And  when  a  serpent  in  his  slime 

Crept  to  her  ear  with  phrase  polite, 

Prating  of  duty  to  her  time 

And  to  her  people — swift  and  white 

She  turned  and  cursed  him  for  his  crime ! 


4H  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

She  would  have  naught  of  all  the  brood 
Of  temporizing,  driveling  shows 
Of  men  who  Philip's  words  withstood  : 
Against  them   all  her  love  uprose, 
And  all  her  pride  of  womanhood. 

She  loved  her  kindred  none  the  less, 
She  loved  her  husband  still  the  more, 
For  well  she  knew  that  with  distress 
He  saw  the  heavy  cross  she  bore 
With  steadfast  faith  and  tenderness. 

No  strife  of  jarring  policies, 
No  conflict  of  embittered  states, 
No  chart,  defining  by  degrees 
Of  latitude  her  country's  hates, 
Could  change  her  friends  to  enemies. 

The  motives  ranged  on  either  hand, 
Behind  the  war  of  word  and  will, 
Were  such  as  she  could  understand 
And,  with  respect  to  all,  fulfill 
Love's  broad  and  beautiful  command. 

So,  with  all  questions  hushed  to  sleep, 
And  all  opinions  put  aside, 
She  gave  her  loved  ones  to  the  keep 
Of  God,  whatever  should  betide, 
To  bear  her  joy  or  bid  her  weep  ! 


XIII. 

Though  Philip  knew  he  wounded  her, 
His  faith  to  God   and  faith  to  man 
Bade  him  go  forward,  and  incur 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  415 

Such  cost  as,  since  the  world  began, 
Has  burdened  Freedom's  harbinger. 

No  heart  or  hand  was  his  to  flinch 
From  ease  or  reputation  lost  ; 
Nor  waste  of  gold,  nor  hunger-pinch, 
Nor  e'en  his  home's  black  holocaust, 
Could  stay  his  arm.     Though  inch  by  inch, 

The  maddened  hosts  of  scorn  and  scath 
Should  crowd  him  backward    to  defeat, 
He  would  but  strive  with  sterner  wrath, 
And  bless  the  hand  that,  soft  and  sweet, 
Withheld  its  hinderance  from  his  path ! 


XIV. 

Still  darker  loomed  the  Southern  cloud, 
While  o'er  its  black  and  billowed  face 
In  furrowed  fire  the  lightning  ploughed, 
And  ramping  from  his  hiding-place 
Roared  the  wild  Thunder,  fierce  and  loud  ! 

And  still  men  chattered  of  their  trade, 
And  strove  to  banish  their  alarms  ; 
And  some  were  puzzled,  some  afraid, 
And  some  held  up  their  feeble  arms 
In  indignation  while  they  prayed ! 

And  others  weakly  talked  of  schism 
As  boon  of  God  in  place  of  war, 
And  bared  their  foreheads  for  its  chrism  ! 
While  direr  than  the  mace  of  Thor, 
In  mid-air  hung  the  cataclysm 


416  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

Which  waited  but  some  chance,  or  act, 

To  shiver  the  electric  spell, 

And  pour  in  one  fierce  cataract 

A  rain  of  blood  and  fire  of  hell 

On  Freedom's  temple  spoiled  and  sacked. 

The  politician  plied  his  craft  ; 

The  demagogue  still  schemed  and  lied  ; 

The  patriot  wept,  the  traitor  laughed  ; 

The  coward  to  his  covert  hied, 

And  statesmen  went  distract  or  daft. 

Contention  raged  in  Senate  halls  ; 
Confusion  reigned  in  field  and  town ; 
High  conclaves  flattened  into  brawls, 
And  till  and  hammer,  smock  and  gown, 
Nor  duty  knew  nor  heard  its  calls ! 


XV. 

At  last,  incontinent  of  fire, 

The  cloud  of  menace  belched  its  brand  ; 

And  every  state  and  every  shire 

And  town  and  hamlet  in  the  land, 

Shook  with  the  smiting  of  its  ire  ! 

Men  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes, 

And  beat  their  burning  breasts  and  cursed ! 

At  last  the  silliest  were  wise  ; 

And  swift  to  flash  and   thunder-burst 

Fashioned  in  anger  their  replies. 

The  smoke  of  Sumter  filled  the  air. 
Men  breathed  it  in  in  one  long  breath  ; 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  41  / 

And  straight  upspringing  everywhere, 
Life  burgeoned  on  the  mounds  of  death, 
And  bloomed  in  valleys  of  despair. 

The  fire  of  Sumter,  fierce  and  hot, 
Welded  their  purpose  into  one  ; 
And  discord  hushed,  and  strife  forgot, 
They  swore  that  what  had  thus  begun 
With  sacrilegious  cannon-shot, 

Should  find  in  analogue  of  flame 

Such  answer  of  the  nation's  host, 

That  the  old  flag,  washed  clean  from  shame 

In  blood,  should  .wave  from  coast   to  coast, 

Over  one  realm  in  heart  and  name  ! 


XVI. 

Pale  doubters,  scourged  by  countless  whips, 
Fled  to  their  refuge,  or  obeyed 
The  motives  and  the  masterships 
That  time  and  circumstance  betrayed 
Through  Patriotism's  apocalypse, 

And,  sympathetic  with  the  spasm 

Of  loyal  life  that  thrilled  the  clime, 

Lost   in  the  swift  enthusiasm 

The  loose  intention  of  their  crime  ; 

Then  leaped  in  swarms  the  awful  chasm 

That  held  them  parted  from  the  mass. 
The  North  was  one  in  heart  and  thought, 
And  that  which  could  not  come  to  pass 
Through  loyal  eloquence,  was  wrought 
By  one  hot  word  from  lips  of  brr.ss  ! 

IS* 


j.l8  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 


XVII. 

The  cry  sprang  upward  and  sped  on  : 
"  To  arms  !   for  freedom  and  the  flag !  " 
And  swift,  from  Maine  to  Oregon, 
O'er  glebe  and  lake  and  mountain-crag, 
Hurtled  the  fierce  Euroclydon. 

Men  dropped  their  mallets  on  the  bench, 
Forsook  their  ploughs  on  hill  and  plain, 
And  tore  themselves,  with  piteous  wrench 
Of  heart  and  hope,  from  love  and  gain, 
And  trooped  in  throngs  to  tent  and  trench. 

"  To  arms  !  "  and  Philip  heard  the  cry. 
Not  his  the  valor  cheap  and  small 
To  bluster  with  brave  phrase,  and  fly 
When  trumpet  blare  and  rifle-ball 
Proclaimed  the  time  for  words  gone  by ! 

Men  knew  their  chieftain.     He  had  borne 
Their  insolence  through  struggling  years, 
And  they — the  dastards,  the  forsworn— 
Who  had  ransacked  the  hemispheres 
For  instruments  to  wreak  their  scorn 

On  him  and  all  of  kindred  speech, 
Gathered  around  him  with  his  friends, 
And  with  stern  plaudits  heard  him  preach 
A  gospel  whose  stupendous  ends 
Their  martyred  blood  could  only  reach. 

They  gave  him  honor  far  and  wide, 
As  one  who  backed  his  word  by*  deed ; 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  419 

And  he  whose  task  had  been  to  guide, 
Was  chosen  by  acclaim  to  lead 
The  men  who  gathered  at  his  side. 

The  crook  was  banished  for  the  glave  ; 
The  churchman's  black  for  soldier-blue  ; 
The  man  of  peace  became  a  brave  ; 
And,  in  the  dawn  of  conflict,  drew 
His  sword  his  country's  life  to  save. 


XIX. 

They  came  from  mead  and  mountain-top ; 
They  came  from  factory  and  forge  ; 
And  one  by  one,  from  farm  and  shop — 
Still  gravel  to  the  Northman's  gorge — 
Followed  the  servile  Ethiop. 

Gaunt,  grimy  men,   whose  ways  had  been 
Among  the  shadows  and  the  slums, 
With  pedagogue  and  paladin, 
Rushed,  at  the  rolling  of  the  drums, 
To  Philip,  and  were  mustered  in  ! 

The  beat  of  drum  and  scream  of  fife, 
Commingling  with  the  thundering  tramp 
Of  trooping  throngs,  so  changed  the  life 
Of  the  calm  village  that  the  camp, 
And  what  it  prophesied  of  strife, 

And  hap  of  loss  and  hap  of  gain, 
Became  of  every  tongue  the  theme ; 
Till  burning  heart  and  throbbing  brain 
Could  waking  think,  and  sleeping  dream, 
Of  naught  but  battles  and  the  slain. 


420  THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE. 


XX. 

With  eager  eyes  and  helpful  hands 
The  women  met  in  solemn  crowds, 
And  shred  the  linen  into  bands 
That  had  been  better  saved  for  shrouds, 
Or  want's  imperious  demands. 

And  with  them  all  sad  Mildred  walked, 
The  bearer  of  a  heavy  cross; 
For  at  her  side  the  phantom  stalked — 
Nor  left  her  for  an  hour — of  loss 
Which  by  no  fortune  might  be  balked. 

For  one  or  all  she  loved  must  fall ; 
One  cause  must  perish  in  defeat; 
Success  of  either  would  appall, 
And  victory,  however  sweet 
To  others,  would  to  her  be  gall. 

To  each,  with  equal  heart  allied, 
Her  love  was  like  the  love  of  God, 
That  wraps  the  country  in  its  tide, 
And  o'er  its  hosts,  benign  and  broad, 
Broods  with  its  pity  and  its  pride  ! 

A  thousand  chances  of  the  feud 

She  wove  and  raveled  one  by  one, — 

Of  hands  in  kindred  blood  imbrued, — 

Of  father,  face  to  face  with  son, 

And  friends  turned  foemen  fierce  and  rude. 

And  in  her  dreams  two  forms  were  met, 
Of  friends  as  leal  as  ever  breathed — 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  421 

Her  husband  and  her  brother — wet 

With  priceless  blood  from  swords  ensheathed 

In  hearts  that  loved  each  other  yet  ! 

But  itching  ears  her  language  scanned, 
And  jealous  eyes  were  on  her  steps  ; 
And  fancies  into  rumors  fanned 
By  loyal  shrews  and  demireps 
Proclaimed  her  traitress  to  the  land. 

They  knew  her  blood,  but  could  not  know 
That  mighty  passion  of  her  heart 
Which,  reaching  widely  in  its  woe, 
Grasped  all  she  loved  on  either  part, 
And  could  not,  would  not  let  it  go ! 


XXI. 

The  time  of  gathering  came  and  went — 
Of  noisy  zeal  and  hasty  drill — 
And  everywhere,  in  field   and  tent, — • 
A  constant  presence, — Philip's  will 
Moulded  the  callow  regiment. 

And  then  there  fell  a  gala  day, 
When  all  the  mighty,  motley  swarm 
Appeared  in  beautiful  display 
Of  burnished  arms  and  uniform, 
And  gloried  in  their  brave  array  ! — 

And,  later  still,  the  hour  of  dread 
To  all  the  simple  country  round, 
When  forth,  with  Philip  at  their  head, 
They  marched  from  the  familiar  ground, 
And  drained  its  life,  and  left  it  dead  ; — 


422  THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE. 

Dead  but  for  those  who  pined  with  grief; 
Dead  but  for  fears  that  could  not  die  ; 
Dead  as  the  world  when  flower  and  leaf 
Are   still  beneath  a  gathering  sky, 
And  ocean  sleeps  on  reach  and  reef. 

The  weary  waiting  time  had  come, 
When  only  apprehension  waked  ; 
And  lonely  wives  sat  chill  and  dumb 
Among  their  broods,  with  hearts  that  ached 
And  echoed  the  retreating  drum. 

Teachers  forgot  to  preach  their  creeds, 
And  trade  forsook  its  merchandise  ; 
The  fallow  fields  grew  rank  with  weeds, 
And  none  had  interest  or  eyes 
For  aught  but  war's  ensanguined  deeds. 

As  one  who  lingered  by  a  bier 
Where  all  she  loved  lay  dead  and  cold, 
Sad  Mildred  sat  without  a  tear, 
Living  again  the  days  of  old, 
Or,  with  the  vision  of  a  seer, 

Forecasting  the  disastrous  end. 
Whate'er  might  come,  she  did  not  dare 
Believe  that  fortune  would  defend 
The  noble  life  she  could  not  spare, 
And  save  her  lover  and  her  friend. 

Her  blooming  girls  and  stalwart  boys 
Could  never  comprehend  the  woe 
Which  dropped  its  measure  of  their  joys, 
And  felt  but  horror  in  the  show, 
And  heard  but  murder  in  the  noise, 


"  LONELY  WIVES  SAT  CHILL  AND  DUMB." 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  423 

And  dreamed  of  death  when  stillness  fell 
Behind  the  gay  and  shouting  corps. 
They  saw  her  haunted  by  the  spell 
Of  a  great  sorrow,  and  forebore 
To  question  griefs  they  could  not  quell. 

Small  time  she  gave  to  vain  regret  ; 

Brief  space  to  thought  of  that  adieu 

Which  crushed  her  breast,  when  last  they  met, 

And  in  love's  baptism  bathed  anew 

Cheeks,  lips,  and  eyes,  and  left  them  wet  J 

In  deeds  of  sympathy  and  grace, 
She  moved  among  the  homes  forlorn, 
Ailke  to  beautiful  and  base 
And  to  the  stricken  and  the  shorn, 
The  guardian  angel  of  the  place. 


XXII. 

Oh  piteous  waste  of  hopes  and  fears ! 
Oh  cruel  stretch  of  long  delay ! 
Oh  homes  bereft !     Oh  useless  tears  ! 
Oh  war !    that  ravened  on  its  prey 
Through  Pain's  immeasurable  years  ! 

The  town  was  mourning  for  its  dead  ; 
The  streets  were  black  with  widowhood  ; 
While  orphaned  children  begged  for  bread, 
And  Rachel,  for  the  brave  and  good, 
Mourned,  and  would  not  be  comforted. 

The  regiment  that,  straight  and  crisp, 
Shone  like  a  wheat- field  in  the  sun, 


424  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

Its  swift  voice  deafened  to  a  lisp, 
Fell,  ere  the  war  was  well  begun, 
And  waned  and  withered  to  a  wisp. 

And  Philip,  grown  to  higher  rank, 
Crowned  with  the  bays  of  splendid  deeds 
Of  the  full  cup  of  glory  drank, 
And  lived,  though  all  his  reeking  steeds 
In  the  red  front  of  conflict  sank. 

The  star  of  conquest  waxed  or  waned, 
Yet  still  the  call  came  back  for  men  ; 
Still  the  lamenting  town  was  drained, 
And  still  again,  and  still  again, 
Till  only  impotence  remained  ! 


XXIII. 

There  came  at  length  an  eve  of  gloom — 
Dread  Gettysburg's  eventful  eve — 
When  all  the  gathering  clouds  of  doom 
Hung  low,  the  breathless  air  to  cleave 
With  scream  of  shell  and  cannon-boom ! 

Man  knew  too  well,  and  woman  felt 
That  when  the  next  wild  morn  should  rise, 
A  blow  of  battle  would  be  dealt 
Before  whose  fire  ten  thousand  eyes — 
As  in  a  furnace  flame — would  melt. 

And  on  this  eve — her  flock  asleep — 
Knelt  Mildred  at  her  lonely  bed. 
She  could  not  pray,  she  did  not  weep, 
But  only  moaned,  and,  moaning,  said  : 
"  Oh  God  !    he  sows  what  I  must  reap  ! 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  425 

"He  will  not  live  :  he  must  not  die! 
But  oh,  my  poor,  prophetic  heart ! 
It  warns  me  that  there  lingers  nigh 
The  hour  when  love  and  I  must  part ! " 
And  then  she  startled  with  a  cry, 

For,  from  beneath  her  lattice,  came 
A  low  and  once  repeated  call ! 
She  knew  the  voice  that  spoke  her  name, 
And  swiftly  through  the  midnight  hall 
She  fluttered  noiseless  as  a  flame, 

And  on  its  unresisting  hinge 
Threw  wide  her  hospitable  door, 
To  one  whose  spirit  could  not  cringe 
Though  he  was  shelterless,  and  bore 
No  right  her  freedom  to  infringe. 

She  wildly  clasped  his  neck  of  bronze ; 
She  rained  her  kisses  on  his  face, 
Grown  tawny  with  a  thousand  sur    , 
And  holding  him  in  her  embrace, 
She  led  him  to  her  little  ones, 

Who,  reckless  of  his  coming,  slept. 
Then  down  the  stair  with  silent  feet 
And  through  the  shadowy  hall  she  swept, 
And  saw,  between  her  and  the  street, 
A  form  that  into  darkness  crept. 

She  closed  the  door  with  speechless  dread  ; 
She  fixed  the  bolt  with  trembling  hand  ; 
Then  led  the  rebel  to  his  bed, 
Whom  love  and  safety  had  unmanned, 
And  left  him  less  alive  than  dead. 


426  THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE. 

Through  nights  and  days  of  fear  and  grief, 
She  kept  her  faithful  watch  and  ward, 
But  love  and  rest  brought  no  relief ; 
And  all  he  begged  for  of  his  Lord 
Was  death,  with  passion  faint  and  brief. 


XXIV. 

Around  the  house  were  prying  eyes, 
And  gossips  hiding  under  trees  ; 
And  Mildred  heard  the  steps  of  spies 
At  midnight,  when,  upon  her  knees, 
She  sought  the  comfort  of  the  skies. 

Strange  voices  rose  upon  the  night ; 
Strange  errands  entered  at  the  gate  ; 
Her  hours  were  months  of  pale  affright ; 
Though  still  her  prisoner  of  state 
Was  shielded  from  their  eager  sight. 

And  there  were  hirelings  in  pursuit, 
Who  thirsted  for  his  golden  price  ; 
And,  swift  allied  with  pimp  and  brute, 
And  quick  to  purchase  and  entice, 
They  found  the  tree  that  held  their  fruit. 


xxv. 

The  day  of  Gettysburg  had  set; 

The  smoke  had  drifted  from  the  scene, 

And  burnished  sword  and  bayo*het 

Lay  rusting  where,  but  yestere'en, 

They  dropped  with  life-blood  red  and  wet ! 


THE  MISTRESS   OF  THE  MANSE.  427 

The  swift  invader  had  retraced 

His  march,  and  left  his  fallen  braves, 

Covered  at  night  in  voiceless  haste, 

To  sleep  in  memorable  graves, 

But  knew  that  all  his  loss  was  waste. 

The  nation's  legions,  stretching  wide, 
Too  sore  to  chase,  too  weak  to  cheer, 
Gave  sepulture  to  those  who  died, 
And  saw  their  foemen  disappear 
Without  the  loss  of  power  or  pride. 

And  then,  swift-sweeping  like  a  gale, 
Through  all  the  land,  from  end  to  end, 
Grief  poured  its  wild,  untempered  wail, 
And  father,  mother,  wife,  and  friend 
Forgot  their  country  in  their  bale. 

And  Philip,  with  his  fatal  wound, 
Was  borne  beyond  the  battle's  blaze, 
Across  the  torn  and  quaking  ground, 
His  ear  too  dull  to  heed  the  praise, 
That  spoke  him  hero,  robed  and  crowned. 

They  bent  above  his  blackened  face, 

And  questioned  of  his  last  desire  ; 

And  with  his  old,  familiar  grace, 

And  smiling  mouth,  and  eye  of  fire, 

He  answered  them  :    "  My  wife's  embrace  ! " 

They  wiped  his  forehead  of  its  stain, 

They  bore  him   tenderly  away, 

Through  teeming  mart   and  wide  champaign, 

Till  on  a  twilight,  cool  and  gray, 

And  wet  with  weeping  of  the  rain, 


428  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

They  gave  him  to  a  silent  crowd 

That  waited  at  the  river's  marge, 

Of  men  with  age  and  sorrow  bowed, 

Who  raised  and  bore  their  precious  charge, 

Through  groups  that  watched  and  wailed  aloud. 


XXVI. 

The  hounds  of  power  were  at  her  gate ; 
And  at  their  heels,  a  yelping  pack 
Of  graceless  mongrels  stood  in  wait, 
To  mark  the  issue  of  attack, 
With  lips  that  slavered  with  their  hate. 

With  window  raised  and  portal  barred, 
The  mistress  scanned  the  darkening  space, 
And  with  a  visage  hot  and  hard — 
At  bay  before  the  cruel  chase — 
She  held  them  in  her  fierce  regard. 

"What  would  ye — spies  and  hirelings — what?" 
She  asked  with  accent,  stern  and  brave ; 
"Why  come  ye  to  this  sacred  spot, 
Led  by  the  counsel  of  a  knave, 
And  flanked  by  slanderer  and  sot  ? 

"You  huve  my  husband:   has  he  earned 
No  meed  of  courtesy  for  me  ? 
Is  this   the  recompense  returned, 
That  she  he  loved  the   best  should  be 
Suspected,   persecuted,  spurned? 

"  My  home  is  wrecked  :  what  would  ye  more? 
My  life  is  ruined — what  new  boon  ? 
My  children's  hearts  are  sad  and  sore 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE  MANSE.  429 

With  weeping  for  the  wounds  that  soon 
Will  plead  for  healing  at  my  door! 

"  I  hold  your  prisoner — stand  assured: 
Safe  from  his  foes  :    aye,  safe  from  you ! — 
Safe  in  a  sister's  love  immured, 
And  by  a  warden  kept  as  true 
As  e'er  the  test  of  faith  endured. 

"  Why,  men,  he  was  my  brother  born  ! 
My  hero,  all  my  youthful  years  ! 
My  counsellor,  to  guide  and  warn  ! 
My  shield  alike  from  foes  and  fears  ! 
And  when  he  came  to  me,  forlorn, 

"What  could  I  do  but  hail  him  guest, 
And  bind  his  cruel  wounds  with  balm, 
And  give  him  on  his  sister's  breast 
That  which  he  asked,  the  humble  aim 
Of  a  safe  pillow  where  to  rest  ? 

"Come,  then,  and  dare  the  wrath  of  fate! 

Come,  if  you  must,  or  if  you  will ! 

But  know  that  I  am  desperate  ; 

And  shafts  that  wound,  and  wounds  that  kill 

Your  deed  of  dastardy  await !  " 

A  murmur  swept  through  all  the  mob ; 

The  base  informer  slunk  afar  ; 

And  lusty  cheer  and  stifled  sob 

Rose  to  her  at  the  window-bar, 

While  those  whose  hands  were  come  to  rob 

Her  dwelling  of  its  treasure,  cursed  ; 
For  round  their  heads  the  menace  flew 


430  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

That  he  who  dared  adventure  first, 
Or  first  an  arm  of  murder  drew, 
Should  taste  of  vengeance  at  its  worst. 


XXVII. 

A  heavy  tramp,  a  murmuring  sound, 
Low  mingling  with  the  murmuring  rain, — 
Heard  in  the  wind  and  in  the  ground, — 
Came  up  the  street — a  tide  of  pain, 
In  which  the  angry  din  was  drowned. 

The  leaders  of  the  tumult  fled  ; 
The  door  flew  open  with  a  crash  ; 
And  down  the  street  wild  Mildred  sped, 
Piercing  the  darkness  like  a  flash, 
And  walked  beside  her  husband's  bed. 

Slowly  the  solemn  train  advanced  ; 
The  crowd  fell  back  with  parted  ranks  ; 
And  like  a  giant,  half  entranced, 
Sailing  between  strange,  spectral  banks, 
From  side  to  side  the  soldier  glanced. 

The  sobbing  rain,  the  evening  dim, 
The  dusky  forms  that  pushed  and  peered, 
The  swaying  couch,  the  aching  limb, 
The  lights  and  shadows,  sharp  and  weird, 
Were  but  a  troubled  dream  to  him. 

He  knew  his  love — all  else  unknown, 
Or  seen  through  reason's  sad   eclipse — 
And  with  her  hand  within  his  own, 
Or  fondly  pressed  upon  his  lips, 
He  clung  to  it,  as  if  alone 


•  A   TOTTERING  FIGURE  REACHED  THE  DOOR  ; 
THE   BROTHER    FEU.    UPON   THE   BED." 


THE   MISTRESS   OF  THE   MANSE.  431 

It  had  the  power  to  stay  his  feet 

Yet  longer  on  the  verge  of  life  ; 

And  thus  they  vanished  from  the  street — 

The  shepherd-warrior  and  his  wife — 

Within  the  manse's  closed  retreat. 


XXVIII. 

Embraced  by  home,  his   soul  grew  light ; 

And  though  he  moaned  :    "  My  head!    my  head!" 

His  life  turned  back  its  outward  flight, 

Like  his,  who,  from  the  prophet's  bed, 

Startled  the  wondering  Shunammite. 

He  greeted  all  with  tender  speech  ; 
He  told  his  children  he  should  die  ; 
He  gave  his  fond  farewell  to  each, 
With  messages,  and  fond  good-by 
To  all  he  loved  beyond  his  reach. 

And  then  he  spoke  her  brother's  name : 
"  Tell  him,"  he  said,  "  that,  in  my  death, 
I  cherished  his  untarnished  fame, 
And,  to  my  life's  expiring  breath, 
Held  his  Brave  spirit  free  from  blame. 

"  We  strove  alike  for  truth's  behoof, 
With  honest  faith  and  love  sincere, — 
For  God  and  country,  right  and  roof, 
And  issues  that  do  not  appear, 
But  wait  with  Heaven  the  awful  proof." 

A  tottering  figure  reached  the  door  ; 

The  brother  fell  upon  the  bed, 

And,  in  each  other's  arms  once  more, 


432  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 

With  breast  to  breast,  and  head  to  head,- 
Twin  barks,  they  drifted  from  the  shore  ; 

And  backward  on  the  sobbing  air 
Came  the  same  words  from  warring  lips  : 
"  God  save  my  country  !  "  and  the  prayer 
Still  wailing  from  the  drifting  ships, 
Returned  in  measures  of  despair ; 

Till  far,  at  the  horizon's  verge 
They  passed  beyond  the  tearful  eyes 
That  could  not  know  if  in  the  surge 
They  sank  at  last,  or  in  the  skies 
Forgot  the  burden  of  their  dirge  ! 


XXIX. 

In  Northern  blue  and  Southern  brown, 
Twin  coffins  and  a  single  grave, 
They  laid  the  weary  warriors  down; 
And  hands  that  strove  to  slay  and  save 
Had  equal  rest  and  like  renown. 

For  in  the  graveyard's  hallowed  close 
A  woman's  love  made  neutral  soil, 
Where  it  might  lay  the  forms  of  those 
Who,  resting  from  their  fateful  broil, 
Had  ceased  forever  to  be  foes. 

To  her  and  those  who  clung  to  her — 
From  manly  eldest  down  to  least — 
The  obsequies,  the  sepulchre, 
The  chanting  choir,  the  weeping  priest, 
And  all  the  throng  and  all  the  stir 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  433 

Of  sympathetic  country-folk, 
And  all  the  signs  of  death  and  dole, 
Were  but  a  dream  that  beat  and  broke 
In  chilling  waves  on  heart  and  soul, 
Till  in  the  silence  they  awoke. 

She  was  a  widow,  and  she  wept ; 
She  was  a  mother,  and  she  smiled  ; 
Her  faith  with  those  she  loved  was  kept, 
Though  still  the  war-cry,  fierce  and  wild, 
Around  the  harried  country  swept. 

No  more  with  this  had  she  to  do ; 
God  and  her  little  ones  were  left ; 
And  unto  these,  serene  and  true, 
She  gave  the  life  so  soon  bereft 
Of  its  first  gifts,  and  rose  anew 

At  duty's  call  to  make  amends 
For  all  her  loss  of  loves  and  lands  ; 
And  found,  to  speed  her  noble  ends, 
The  succor  of  uplifting  hands, 
And  solace  of  a  thousand  friends. 

And  o'er  her  precious  graves  she  built 
A  stone  whereon  the  yellow  boss 
Of  sword  on  sword  with  naked  hilt 
Lay  as  the  symbol  of  her  cross, 
In  mournful  meaning,  carved  and  gilt. 

And  underneath  were  graved  the  lines:  — 
"  THEY  DID  THE  DUTY  THAT  THEY  SAW  ; 
BOTH  WROUGHT  AT  GOD'S  SUPREME  DESIGNS 
AND,  UNDER  LOVE'S  ETERNAL  LAW, 
EACH  LIFE  WITH  EQUAL  BEAUTY  SHINES." 

19 


434  THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE. 


XXX. 

Peace,  with  its  large  and  lilied  calms, 
Like  moonlight  sleeps  on  land  and  lake, 
With  healing  in  its  dewy  balms, 
For  pride  that  pines  and  hearts  that  ache, 
From  Huron  to  the  land  of  palms  ! 

From  rock-bound  Massachusetts  Bay 
To  California's  Golden  Gate  ; 
From  where  Itasca's  waters  play, 
To  those  which  plunge  or  palpitate 
A  thousand  happy  leagues  away, 

And  drink,  among  her  dunes  and  bars, 
The  Mississippi's  boiling  tide,  * 

Still  floating  from  a  million  spars, 
The  nation's  ensign,  undefied, 
Blazons  its  galaxy  of  stars. 

No  more  to  party  strife  the  slave, 
And  freed  from  Hate's  infernal  spells, 
Love  pays  her  tribute  to  the  brave, 
And  snows  her  holy  immortelles 
O'er  friend  and  foe,  where'er  his  grave. 

On  every  Decoration  Day 

Each  pilgrim  to  her  hallowed  grounds 

Brings  tribute  of  a  flower  or  spray ; 

And  white-haired  Mildred  finds  her  mounds 

Decked  with  the  garnered  bloom  of  May. 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   MANSE.  435 

And  Philip's  first-born,  strong  and  sage, 
(Through  Heaven's  design  or  happy  chance) 
Finds  the  old  church  his  heritage  ; 
And  still,  The  Mistress  of  the  Manse, 
Sits  Mildred,  in  her  silver  age  ! 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  WAR. 


THE   HEART   OF   THE   WAR. 

(1864.) 

PEACE  in  the  clover-scented  air, 

And  stars  within  the  dome  ; 
And  underneath,  in  dim  repose, 

A  plain,  New  England  home. 
Within,  a  murmur  of  low  tones 

And  sighs  from  hearts  oppressed, 
Merging  in  prayer,  at  last,  that  brings 

The  balm  of  silent  rest. 


I've  closed  a  hard  day's  work,  Marty ,- 

The  evening  chores  are  done  ; 
And  you  are  weary  with  the  house, 

And  with  the  little  one. 
But  he  is  sleeping  sweetly  now, 

With  all  our  pretty  brood  ; 
So  come  and  sit  upon  my  knee, 

And  it  will  do  me  good. 

Oh,  Marty !    I  must  tell  you  all 

The  trouble  in  my  heart, 
And  you  must  do  the  best  you  can 

To  take  and  bear  your  part. 


440  THE   HEART   OF   THE   WAR. 

You've  seen  the  shadow  on  my  face  ; 

You've  felt  it  day  and  night ; 
For  it  has  filled  our  little  home, 

And  banished  all  its   light. 

I  did  not  mean  it  should  be  so, 

And  yet  I  might  have  known 
That  hearts  which  live  as  close  as  ours 

Can  never  keep  their  own. 
But  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times, 

And,  do  whate'er  I  may, 
My  heart  grows  sad  about  the  war, 

And  sadder  every  day. 

I  think  about  it  when  I  work, 

And  when  I  try  to  rest, 
And  never  more  than  when  your  head 

Is  pillowed  on  my  breast  ; 
For  then  I  see  the  camp-fires  blaze, 

And  sleeping  men  around, 
Who  turn  their  faces  toward  their  homes, 

And  dream  upon  the  ground. 

I  think  about  the  dear,  brave  boys, 

My  mates  in  other  years, 
Who  pine  for  home  and  those  they  love, 

Till  I  am  choked  with  tears. 
With  shouts  and  cheers  they  marched  away 

On  glory's  shining  track, 
But,  Ah !    how  long,  how  long  they  stay  ! 

How  few  of  them  come  back ! 

One  sleeps  beside  the  Tennessee, 

And  one  beside  the  James, 
And  one  fought  on  a  gallant  ship 

And  perished  in  its  flames. 


THE   HEART   OF   THE   WAR.  44 1 

And  some,  struck  down  by  fell  disease, 

Are  breathing  out  their  life  ; 
And  others,  maimed  by  cruel  wounds, 

Have  left  the  deadly  strife. 

Ah,  Marty!   Marty,  only  think 

Of  all  the  boys  have   done 
And  suffered  in  this  weary  war  ! 

Brave  heroes,  every  one  ! 
Oh !    often,  often  in  the  night, 

I  hear  their  voices  call  : 
"  Come  on  and  help  us!     Is  it  right 

That  we  should  bear  it  all?" 

And  when  I  kneel  and  try  to  pray, 

My  thoughts  are  never  free, 
But  cling  to  those  who  toil  and  fight 

And  die  for  you  and  me. 
And  when  I  pray  for  victory, 

It  seems  almost  a  sin 
To  fold  my  hands  and  ask  for  what 

I  will  not  help  to  win. 

Oh !   do  not  cling  to  me  and  cry, 

For  it  will  break  my  heart  ; 
I'm  sure  you'd  rather  have  me  die 

Than  not  to  bear  my  part. 
You  think  that  some  should  stay  at  home 

To  care  for  those  away  ; 
But  still  I'm  helpless  to  decide 

If  I  should  go  or  stay. 

For,  Marty,  all  the  soldiers  love, 

And  all  are  loved  again  ; 
And  I  am  loved,  and  love,  perhaps, 

No  more  than  other  men. 
19* 


442  THE   HEART   OF  THE   WAR. 

I  cannot  tell— I  do  not  know— 

Which  way  my  duty  lies, 
Or  where  the  Lord  would  have  me  build 

My  fire  of  sacrifice. 

I  feel — I  know — I  am  not  mean  ; 

And,  though  I  seem  to  boast, 
I'm  sure  that  I  would  give  my  life 

To  those  who  need  it  most. 
Perhaps  the  Spirit  will  reveal 

That  which  is  fair  and  right  ; 
So,  Marty,  let  us  humbly  kneel 

And  pray  to  Heaven  for  light. 


Peace  in  the  clover-scented  air, 

And  stars  within  the  dome  ; 
And  underneath,  in  dim  repose, 

A  plain,  New  England  home. 
Within,  a  widow  in  her  weeds, 

From  whom  all  joy  is  flown, 
Who  kneels  among  her  sleeping  babes, 

And  weeps  and  prays  alone ! 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 


THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY. 

THE  harlequins  are  out  in  force  to-day — 

The  piebald  Swiss — and  in  the  vestibule 

Of  great  St.  Peter's  rings  the  rhythmic  tread 

Of  Roman  nobles,  uniformed  and  armed 

As  the  Pope's  Guard ;  and  while  their  double  line 

With  faultless  curve  enters  the  open  door, 

And  sways  and  sparkles  up  the  splendid  nave, 

Between  the  walls  of  humbler  soldiery, 

And  parts  to  pass  the  altar — keeping  step 

To  the  proud  beating  of  their  Roman  hearts — 

A  breeze  of  whispered  admiration  sweeps 

The  crowds  that  gaze,  and  dies  within  the  dome. 

St.  Peter's  toe  (the  stump  of  it)  was  cold 
An  hour  ago,  but  waxes  warm  apace 
With  rub  of  handkerchiefs,  and  dainty  touch 
Of  lips  and  foreheads. 

Smug  behind  their  screen 

Sit  the  Pope's  Choir.     No  woman  enters  there  ; 
For  woman  is  impure,  and  makes  impure 
By  voice  and  presence  !     Mary,  Mother  of  God ! 
Not  thy  own  sex  may  sing  thee  in  the  courts 
Of  The  All-Holy! — Only  man,  pure  man! 
Doubt  not  the  purity  of  some  of  these — 
Angels  before  their  time — nor  doubt 


446  THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY. 

That  they  will  sing  like  angels,  when  Papa, 
Borne  on  the  shoulders  of  his  stalwart  men 
(The  Master  rode  an  ass),  and  canopied 
By  golden  tapestries — the  triple  crown 
Upon  his  brow,  the  nodding  peacock  plumes 
Far  heralding  his  way — shall  come  to  take 
His  incense  and  his  homage. 

I  will  go. 

'Tis  a  brave  pageant,  to  be  seen  just  once. 
'Tis  a  brave  pageant,  but  one  does  not  like 
To  smutch  his  trousers  kneeling  to  a  man, 
Or  bide  the  stare  that  follows  if  he  fail : 
So,  having  seen  it  once,  one  needs  not  wait. 

What  is  the  feast  ?     Let's  see  :    ah !    I  recall : 

St.  Peter's  chair  was  brought  from  Antioch 

So  many  years  ago  ; — the  worse  for  wear 

No  doubt,  and  never  quite  luxurious, 

But  valued  as  a  piece  of  furniture 

By  Rome  above  all  price  ;  and  so  they  give 

High  honor  to  the  anniversary. 

'Tis  well  ;    in  Rome  they  make  account  of  chairs. 

If  less  in  heaven,  it  possibly  may  be 

Because  they're  greatly  occupied  by  joy 

Over  bad  men  made  penitent  and  pure 

By  this  same  chair  !     Who  knows  ? 

I'll  to  the  door! 

The  sun  seems  kind  and  simple  in  the  sky 
After  such  pomp.     I  thank  thee,  Sun  !     Thou  hast 
A  smile  like  God,  that  reaches  to  the  heart 
Direct  and  sweet,  without  the  ministries 
Of  scene  and  ceremonial !     Thy  rays 
Fall  not  in  benediction  at  the  ends 


THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY.  447 

Of  two  pale  fingers ;    but  thy  warmth  and  light 

Wrap  well  the  cold  dark  world.     I  need  no  prism 

To  teach  my  soul  that  thou  art  beautiful  : 

It  would  divide  thee,  and  confuse  my  sight. 

Shine  freely,  sun !     No  mighty  mother  church 

Stands  mediator  between  thee  and  me  ! 

Ay,  shine  on  these — all  these  in  shivering  need — 

To  whom   God's  precious  love  is  doled  or  sold 

By  sacerdotal  hucksters  !     Shine  on  these, 

And  teach  them  that  the  God  of  Life  and  Light 

Dwells  not  alone  in  temples  made  by  hands  ; 

And  that  the  path  to  Him,  from  every  soul, 

In  every  farthest  corner  of  the  earth, 

Is  as  direct  as  are  thy  rays  to  thee ! 

Ha  !     Pardon  !     Have  I  hurt  you  ?     Welladay  ! 

I  was  not  looking  for  a  beggar  here  : — 

Indeed,  was  looking  upward !     But  I  see 

You're  here  by  royal  license — with  a  badge 

Made  of  good  brass.     Come  nearer  to  me  !   there : 

Take  double  alms,  and  give  me  chance  to  read 

The  number  on  your  breast.     So  :    "Seventy-seven!" 

'Tis  a  good  number,  man,  and  quite  at  home 

About  the  temple.     Well,  you  have  hard  fare, 

But  many  brothers  and  no  end  of  shows ! 

Think  it  not  ill  that  they  will  spend  to-day, 

Touching  this  chair,  enough  of  time  and  gold 

To  gorge  the  poor  of  Rome.     The  men  who  hold 

The  church  in  charge — who  are,  indeed,  the  church — • 

Have  little  time  to  give  to  starving  men. 

Be  thankful  for  your  label !     Only  one 

Can  be  the  beggar  "  Number  seventy-seven  !  " 

They  are  distinguished  persons  :    so  are  you  ! 

You  must  be  patient,  though  it  seems,  I  grant, 

A  trifle  odd  that  when  a  miracle 

Is  wrought  before  you,  it  will  never  take 


448  THE   MARBLE    PROPHECY. 

A  useful  turn,  as  in  the  olden  time, 

And  give  you  loaves  and  fishes,  or  increase 

Your  little  dinners ! 

Still  the  expectant  crowds 
Press  up  the  street  from  round  St.  Angelo, 
And  thread  the  circling  colonnade,  or  cross 
With  hurried  steps  the  broad  piazza — crowds 
That  pass  the  portal,  and  at  once  are  lost 
Within  the  vaulted  glooms,  as  morning  mist 
Is  quenched  by  morning  air. 

It  is  God's  house — 

The  noblest  temple  ever  reared  to  Him 
By  hands  of  men — the  culminating  deed 
Of  a  great  church — the  topmost  reach  of  art 
For  the  enshrinement  of  the  Christian  faith 
In  sign  and  symbol.     Holiness  becomes 
The  temple  of  the  Holy ! 

And  these  crowds  ? 

Come  they  to  pour  the  worship  of  their  hearts 
Like  wine  upon  the  altar  ?     Who  are  they  ? 
Last  night,  we  hear,  the  theatre  was  full. 
It  was  a  spectacle  :    they  went  to  see. 
All  yesterday  they  thronged  the  galleries, 
Or  roved  among  the  ruins,  or  drove  out 
Upon  the  broad  campagna — just  to  see. 
This  afternoon,  with  gaudy  equipage, 
(Their  Baedeker  and  Murray  left  at  home), 
They'll  be  upon  the  Pincio — to  see. 
And  so  this  morning,  learning  of  the  chair 
And  the  Pope's  coming,  they  are  here  to  see 
(The  men  in  swallow-tails,  their  wives  in  black), 
The  grandest  spectacle  of  all  the  week. 


THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY.  449 

Make  way  ye  men  of  poverty  and  dirt 
Who  fringe  the  outer  lines  !     Make  open-way 
And  let  them  pass !     This  is  the  House  of  God, 
And  swallow-tails  are  of  fine  moment  here ! 

The  ceremony  has  begun  within. 

I  hear  the  far,  faint  voices  of  the  choir, 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  were  left  ajar, 

And  cherubim  were  singing  .  .   .  Now  I  hear 

The  sharp,  metallic  chink  of  grounded  arms 

Upon  the  marble,  as  His  Holiness 

Moves  up  the  lines  of  bristling  bayonets 

That  guard  his  progress  .  .  .  But  I  stay  alone. 

Nay,  I  will  to  the  Vatican,  and  there, 

In  converse  with  the  thoughts  of  manlier  men, 

Pass  the  great  morning !     I  shall  be  alone — 

Ay,  all  alone  with  thee,  Laocoon  ! 

"A  feast  day  and  no  entrance?"     Can  one's  gold 

Unloose  a  soul  from  purgatorial  bonds 

And  ope  the  gates  of  heaven,  without  the  power 

To  draw  a  bolt  at  the  Museum  ?     Wait ! 

Laocoon  !    thou  great  embodiment 

Of  human  life  and  human  history  ! 

Thou  record  of  the  past,  thou  prophecy 

Of  the  sad  future,  thou  majestic  voice, 

Pealing  along  the  ages  from  old  time  ! 

Thou  wail  of  agonized  humanity ! 

There  lives  no  thought  in  marble  like  to  thee  ! 

Thou  hast  no  kindred  in  the  Vatican, 

But  standest  separate  among  the  dreams 

Of  old  mythologies — alone — alone  ! 

The  beautiful  Apollo  at  thy  side 

Is  but  a  marble  dream,  and  dreams  are  all 

The  gods  and  goddesses  and  fauns  and  fates 


450  THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY. 

That  populate  these  wondrous  halls ;   but  thou, 

Standing  among  them,  liftest  up  thyself 

In  majesty  of  meaning,  till  they  sink 

Far  from  the  sight,  no  more  significant 

Than  the  poor  toys  of  children.     For  thou  art 

A  voice  from  out  the  world's  experience, 

Speaking  of  all  the  generations  past 

To  all  the  generations  yet  to  come 

Of  the  long  struggle,  the.  sublime  despair, 

The  wild  and  weary  agony  of  man ! 

Ay,  Adam  and  his  offspring,  in  the  toils 

Of  the  twin  serpents  Sin  and  Suffering, 

Thou  dost  impersonate  ;   and  as  I  gaze 

Upon  the  twining  monsters  that  enfold 

In  unrelaxing,  unrelenting  coils, 

Thy  awful  energies,  and  plant  their  fangs 

Deep  in  thy  quivering  flesh,  while  still  thy  might 

In  fierce  convulsion  foils  the  fateful  wrench 

That  would  destroy  thee,  I  am  overwhelmed 

With  a  strange  sympathy  of  kindred  pain, 

And  see  through  gathering  tears  the  tragedy, 

The  curse  and  conflict  of  a  ruined  race  ! 

Those  Rhodian  sculptors  were  gigantic  men, 

Whose  inspirations  came  from  other  source 

Than  their  religion,  though  they  chose  to  speak 

Through  its  familiar  language, — men  who  saw, 

And,  seeing  quite  divinely,  felt  how  weak 

To  cure  the  world's  great  woe  were  all  the  powers 

Whose  reign  their  age  acknowledged.     So  they  sat — 

The  immortal  three — and  pondered  long  and  well 

What  one  great  work  should  speak  the  truth  for  them,- 

What  one  great  work  should  rise  and  testify 

That  they  had  found  the  topmost  fact  of  life, 

Above  the  reach  of  all  philosophies 


THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY.  451 

And  all  religions — every  scheme  of  man 

To  placate  or  dethrone.     That  fact  they  found, 

And  moulded  into  form.     The  silly  priest 

Whose  desecrations  of  the  altar  stirred 

The  vengeance  of  his  God,  and  summoned  forth 

The  wreathed  gorgons  of  the  slimy  deep 

To  crush  him  and  his  children,  was  the  word 

By  which  they  spoke  to  their  own  age  and  race, 

That  listened  and  applauded,  knowing  not 

That  high  above  the  small  significance 

They  apprehended,  rose  the  grand  intent 

That  mourned  their  doom  and  breathed  a  world's  despair ! 

Be  sure  it  was  no  fable  that  inspired 

So  grand  an  utterance.     Perchance  some  leaf 

From  an  old  Hebrew  record  had  conveyed 

A  knowledge  of  the  genesis  of  man. 

Perchance  some  fine  conception  rose  in  them 

Of  unity  of  nature  and  of  race, 

Springing  from  one  beginning.     Nay,  perchance 

Some  vision  flashed  before  their  thoughtful  eyes 

Inspired  by  God,  which  showed  the  mighty  man, 

Who,  unbegotten,  had  begot  a  race 

That  to  his  lot  was  linked  through  countless  time 

By  living  chains,  from  which  in  vain  it  strove 

To  wrest  its  tortured  limbs  and  leap  amain 

To  freedom  and  to  rest !    It  matters  not : 

The  double  word — the  fable  and  the  fact, 

The  childish  figment  and  the  mighty  truth, 

Are  blent   in  one.     The  first  was  for  a  day 

And  dying  Rome  ;    the  last  for  later  time 

And  all  mankind. 

These  sculptors  spoke  their  word 
And  then  they  died ;   and   Rome — imperial  Rome — 


452  THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY. 

The  mistress  of  the  world — debauched  by  blood 

And  foul  with  harlotries — fell  prone  at  length 

Among  the  trophies  of  her  crimes  and  slept. 

Down  toppling  one  by  one  her  helpless  gods 

Fell  to  the  earth,  and  hid  their  shattered  forms 

Within  the  dust  that  bore  them,  and  among 

The  ruined  shrines  and   crumbling  masonry 

Of  their  old  temples.     Still  this  wondrous  group, 

From  its  long  home  upon  the  Esquiline, 

Beheld  the  centuries  of  change,  and  stood, 

Impersonating  in  its  conscious  stone 

The  unavailing  struggle  to  crowd  back 

The  closing  folds  of  doom.     It  paused  to  hear 

A  strange  New  Name  proclaimed  among  the  streets, 

And  catch  the  dying  shrieks  of  martyred  men, 

And  see  the  light  of  hope  and  heroism 

Kindling  in  many  eyes  ;    and  then  it  fell ; 

And  in  the  ashes  of  an  empire  swathed 

Its  aching  sense,  and  hid  its  tortured  forms. 

The  old  life  went,  the  new  life  came  ;    and  Rome 
That  slew  the  prophets  built  their  sepulchres, 
And  filled  her  heathen  temples  with  the  shrines 
Of  Christian  saints  whom  she  had  tossed  to  beasts, 
Or  crucified,  or  left  to  die  in  chains 
Within  her  dungeons.     Ay,  the  old  life  went 
But  came  again.     The  primitive,  true  age — 
The  simple,  earnest  age — when  Jesus  Christ 
The  Crucified  was  only  known  and  preached, 
Struck  hands  with  paganism  and  passed  away. 
Rome  built  new  temples  and  installed  new  names  ; 
Set  up  her  graven  images,  and  gave 
To  Pope  and  priests  the  keeping  of  her  gods. 
Again  she  grasped  at  power  no  longer  hers 
By  right  of  Roman  prowess,  and  stretched  out 


THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY.  453 

Her  hand  upon  the  consciences  of  men. 

The  godlike  liberty  with  which  the  Christ 

Had  made  his  people  free  she  stole  from  them, 

And  bound  them  slaves  to  new  observances. 

Her  times,  her  days,  her  ceremonials 

Imposed  a  burden  grievous  to  be  borne, 

And  millions  groaned  beneath  it.     Nay,  she  grew 

The  vengeful  persecutor  of  the  free 

Who  would  not  bear  her  yoke,  and  bathed  her  hands 

In  blood  as  sweet  as  ever  burst  from  hearts 

Torn  from  the  bosoms  of  the  early  saints 

Within  her  Coliseum.     She  assumed 

To  be  the  arbiter  of  destiny. 


Those  whom  she  bound  or  loosed  upon  the  earth, 

Were  bound  or  loosed  in  heaven  I     In  God's  own  place, 

She  sat  as  God — supreme,  infallible  ! 

She  shut  the  door  of  knowledge  to  mankind, 

And  bound  the  Word  Divine..     She  sucked  the  juice 

Of  all  prosperities  within  her  realms, 

Until  her  gaudy  temples  blazed  with  gold, 

And  from  a  thousand  altars  flashed  the  fire 

Of  priceless  gems.     To  win  her  countless  wealth 

She  sold  as  merchandise  the  gift  of  God. 

She  took  the  burden  which  the  cross  had  borne, 

And  bound  it  fast  to  scourged  and  writhing  loins 

In  thriftless  Penance,  till  her  devotees 

Fled  from  their  kind  to  find  the  boon  of  peace, 

And  died  in  banishment.     Beneath  her  sway, 

The  proud  old  Roman  blood  grew  thin  and  mean 

Till  virtue  was  the  name  it  gave  to  fear, 

Till  heroism  and  brigandage  were  one, 

And  neither  slaves  nor  beggars  knew  their  shame  ! 


454  THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY. 

What  marvel  that  a  shadow  fell,  world-wide, 
And  brooded  o'er  the  ages  ?     Was  it  strange 
That  in  those  dim  and  drowsy  centuries, 
When  the  dumb  earth  had  ceased  to  quake  beneath 
The  sounding  wheels  of  progress,  and  the  life 
That  erst  had  flamed  so  high  had  sunk  so  low 
In  cold  monastic  glooms  and  forms  as  cold, 
The  buried  gods  should  listen  in  their  sleep 
And  dream  of  resurrection?     Was  it  strange 
That  listening  well  they  should  at  length  awake, 
And  struggle  from  their  pillows  ?     Was  it  strange 
That  men  whose  vision  grovelled  should  perceive 
The  dust  in  motion,  and  with  rapture  greet 
Each  ancient  deity  with  loud  acclaim, 
As  if  he  brought  with  him  the  good  old  days 
Of  manly  art  and  poetry  and  power  ? 
Nay,  was  it  strange  that  as  they  raised  themselves, 
And  cleansed  their  drowsy  eyelids  of  the  dust, 
And  took  their  godlike  attitudes  again, 
The  grand  old  forms  should  feel  themselves  at  home- 
Saving  perhaps  a  painful  sense  that  men 
Had  dwindled  somewhat  ?     Was  it  strange,  at  last, 
That  all  these  gods  should  be  installed  anew, 
And  share  the  palace  with  His  Holiness, 
And  that  the  Pope  and  Christian  Rome  can  show 
No  art  that  equals  that  which  had  its  birth 
In  pagan  inspiration  ?     Ah,  what  shame  ! 
That  after  two  millenniums  of  Christ, 
Rome  calls  to  her  the  thirsty  tribes  of  earth, 
And  smites  the  heathen  marble  with  her  rod, 
And  bids  them  drink  the  best  she  has  to  give ! 

And  when  the  gods  were  on  their  feet  again 
It  was  thy  time  to  rise,  Laocoon ! 


THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY.  455 

Those  Rhodian  sculptors  had  foreseen  it  all. 
Their  word  was  true :    thou  hadst  the  right  to  live. 

In  the  quick  sunlight  on  the  Esquiline, 

Where  thou  didst  sleep,  De  Fredis  kept  his  vines  ; 

And  long  above  thee  grew  the  grapes  whose  blood 

Ran  wild  in  Christian  arteries,  and  fed 

The  fire  of  Christian  revels.     Ah  what  fruit 

Sucked  up  the  marrow  of  thy  marble  there  ! 

What   fierce,    mad   dreams    were    those    that    scared    the 

souls 

Of  men  who  drank,  nor  guessed  what  ichor  stung 
Their  crimson  lips,  and  tingled  in  their  veins  ! 
Strange  growths  were  those  that  sprang  above  thy  sleep : 
Vines  that  were  serpents  ;   huge  and  ugly  trunks 
That  took  the  forms  of  human  agony — 
Contorted,  gnarled  and  grim — and  leaves  that  bore 
The  semblance  of  a  thousand  tortured  hands, 
And  snaky  tendrils  that  entwined  themselves 
Around  all  forms  of  life  within  their  reach, 
And  crushed  or  blighted  them ! 

At  last  the  spade 

Slid  down  to  find  the  secret  of  the  vines, 
And  touched  thee  with  a  thrill  that  startled  Rome, 
And  swiftly  called  a  shouting  multitude 
To  witness  thy  unveiling. 

Ah  what  joy 

Greeted  the  rising  from  thy  long  repose  ! 
And  one,  the  mighty  master  of  his  time, 
The  king  of  Christian  art,  with  strong,  sad  face 
Looked  on,  and  wondered  with  the  giddy  crowd, — 
Looked  on  and  learned  (too  late,  alas  !   for  him), 
That  his  humanity  and  God's  own  truth 


THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY. 

Were  more  than  Christian  Rome,  and  spoke  in  words 
Of  larger  import.     Humbled  Angelo 
Bowed  to  the  masters  of  the  early  days, 
Grasped  their  strong  hands  across  the  centuries, 
And  went  his  way  despairing  ! 

Thou,  meantime, 

Didst  find  thyself  installed  among  the  gods 
Here  in  the  Vatican  ;    and  thou,  to-day, 
Hast  the  same  word  for  those  who  read  thee  well 
As  when  thou  wast  created.     Rome  has  failed  : 
Humanity  is  writhing  in  the  toils 
Of  the  old  monsters  as  it  writhed  of  old, 
And  there  is  neither  help  nor  hope  in  her. 
Her  priests,  her  shrines,  her  rites,  her  mummeries, 
Her  pictures  and  her  pageants,  are  as  weak 
To  break  the  hold  of  Sin  and  Suffering 
As  those  her  reign  displaced.     Her  iron  hand 
Shrivels  the  manhood  it  presumes  to  bless, 
Drives  to  disgust  or  infidelity 

The  strong  and  free  who  dare  to  think  and  judge, 
And  wins  a  kiss  from  coward  lips  alone. 
She  does  not  preach  the  Gospel  to  the  poor, 
But  takes  it  from  their  hands.     The  men  who  tread 
The  footsteps  of  the  Master,  and  bow  down 
Alone  to  Him,  she  brands  as  heretics 
Or  hunts  as  fiends.     She  drives  beyond  her  gates 
The  Christian  worshippers  of  other  climes, 
And  other  folds  and  faiths,  as  if  their  brows 
Were  white  with  leprosy,  and  grants  them  there 
With  haughty  scorn  the  privilege  to  kneel 
In  humble  worship  of  the  common  Lord  ! 

Is  this  the  Christ,  or  look  we  still  for  Him  ? 
Is  the  old  problem  solved,  or  lingers  yet 


THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY.  457 

The  grand  solution  ?     Ay  Laocoon  ! 

Thy  word  is  true,  for  Christian  Rome  has  failed, 

And  I  behold  humanity  in  thee 

As  those  who  shaped  thee  saw  it,  when  old  Rome 

In  that  far  pagan  evening  fell  asleep. 

20 


SHORTER     POEMS. 


THE   PALMER'S   VISION. 


NOON  o'er  Judea !     All  the  air  was  beating 
With  the  hot  pulses  of  the  day's  great  heart ; 
The  birds  were  silent,  and  the  rill  retreating 
Shrank  in  its  covert,  and  complained  apart, 

When  a  lone  pilgrim,  with  his  scrip  and  burdon, 
Dropped  by  the  wayside,  weary  and  distressed, 
His  sinking  heart  grown  faithless  of  its  guerdon — 
The  city  of  his  recompense  and  rest. 

No  vision  yet  of  Galilee  and  Tabor ! 
No  glimpse  of  distant  Zion  throned  and  crowned  ! 
Behind  him  stretched  his  long  and  useless  labor, 
Before  him  lay  the  parched  and  stony  ground. 

He  leaned  against  a  shrine  of  Mary,  casting 
Its  balm  of  shadow  on  his  aching  head, 
And  worn  with  toil,  and  faint  with  cruel  fasting, 
He  sighed:    "O  God!    O  God,  that  I  were  dead! 

"  The  friends  I  loved  are  lost  or  left  behind  me  ; 
In  penury  and  loneliness  I  roam  ; 

These  endless  paths  of  penance  choke  and  blind  me  ; 
Oh  come  and  take  thy  wasted  pilgrim  home  ! " 


4^2  SHORTER   POEMS. 

Then  with  the  form  of  Mary  bending  o'er  him, 
Her  hands  in  changeless  benediction  stayed, 
The  palmer  slept,  while  a  swift  dream  upbore  him 
To  the  fair  paradise  for  which  he  prayed. 

He  stood  alone,  wrapped  in  divinest  wonder ; 
He  saw  the  pearly  gates  and  jasper  walls 
Informed  wit.h  light,  and  heard  the  far-off  thunder 
Of  chariot  wheels  and  mighty  waterfalls ! 

From  far  and  near,  in  rhythmic  palpitations, 
Rose  on  the  air  the  noise  of  shouts  and  psalms ; 
And  through  the  gates  he  saw  the  ransomed  nations, 
Marching  and  waving  their  triumphant  palms. 

And  white  within  the  thronging  Empyrean, 
A  golden  palm-branch  in  his  kingly  hand, 
He  saw  his  Lord,  the  gracious  Galilean, 
Amid  the  worship  of  his  myriads  stand ! 

"  O  Jesus  !     Lord  of  glory !     Bid  me  enter  ! 

I  worship  thee !     I  kiss  thy  holy  rood !  " 

The  pilgrim  cried,  when  from  the  burning  center 

A  broad-winged  angel  sought  him  where  he  stood. 

"  Why  art  thou  here  ?  "   in  accents  deep  and  tender 
Outspoke  the  messenger.     "  Dost  thou  not  know 
That  none  may  win  the  city's  rest  and  splendor, 
Who  do  not  cut  their  palms  in  Jericho  ? 

"  Go  back  to  earth,  thou  palmer  empty-handed  ! 
Go  back  to  hunger  and  the  toilsome  way ! 
Complete  the  task  that  duty  hath  commanded, 
And  win  the  palm  thou  hast  not  brought  to-day  !  " 


SHORTER   POEMS.  463 

And  then  the  sleeper  woke,  and  gazed  around  him  ; 
Then  springing  to  his  feet  with  life  renewed, 
He  spurned  the  faithless  weakness  that  had  bound  him, 
And,  faring  on,  his  pilgrimage  pursued. 

The  way  was  hard,  and  he  grew  halt  and  weary, 
But  one  long  day,  among  the  evening  hours, 
He  saw  beyond  a  landscape  gray  and  dreary 
The  sunset  flame  on  Salem's  sacred  towers  ! 

O,. fainting  soul  that  readest  well  this  story, 
Longing  through  pain  for  death's  benignant  balm, 
Think  not  to  win  a  heaven  of  rest  and  glory 
If  thou  shalt  reach  its  gates  without  thy  palm  ! 


TO   WHITTIER   ON    HIS   SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY. 

TEN  gentle -hearted  boys  of  seven, 
Too  young  and  sweet  to  stray  from  heaven, 
Will — counting  up  the   little  men — 
Amount  to  three  score  years  and  ten. 

Two  gracious  men  of  thirty-five, 
With  wits  alight  and  hearts  alive, 
Will  fill  complete  the  rounded  spheres 
Of  seventy  strong  and  manly  years. 

Nay,  Whittier,  thou  art  not  old ; 
Thy  register  a  lie  hath   told, 
For  lives  devote  to  love  and  truth 
Do  only  multiply  their  youth. 


4^4  SHORTER   POEMS. 

Thou  art  ten  gentle  boys  of  seven, 

With  souls  too  sweet  to  stray  from  heaven  ; 

Thou  art  two  men  of  thirty-five, 

With  wits  alight,  and  hearts  alive! 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  YOUTH. 

MAIDEN,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  face, 
Thy  sweet,  shy  glance  of  conscious  eyes  ; 
For,  from  thy  beauty  and  thy  grace, 
My  life  has  won  a  glad  surprise. 

I  met  thee  on  the  crowded  street — 
A  load  of  care  on  heart  and  brain — 
And,  for  a  moment,  bright  and  fleet, 
The  vision  made  me  young  again. 

And  then  I  thought,  as  on  I  went, 

And  struggled  through  the  thronging  ways, 

How  every  age's  complement 

The  age  that  follows  overlays. 

The  youth  upon  the  child  shuts  down  ; 

Young  manhood  closes  over  youth  ; 

And  ripe  old  age  is  but  the  crown 

That  keeps  them  both  in  changeless  truth  ! 

So,  every  little  child  I  see, 
With  brow  and  spirit  undefiled, 
And  simple  faith  and  frolic  glee, 
Finds  still  in  me  another  child. 


SHORTER  POEMS. 

Toward  every  brave  and  careless  boy 
Whose  lusty  shout  or  call  I  hear, 
The  boy  within  me  springs  with  joy 
And  rings  an  echo  to  his  cheer ! 

What  was  it,  when  thy  face  I  saw, 
That  moved  my  spirit  like  a  breeze, 
Responsive  to  the  primal  law 
Of  youth's  entrancing  harmonies  ? 

Ah  !    little  maid — so  sweet  and  shy — 
Building  each  day  thy  fair  romance — 
Thou  didst  not  dream  a  youth  passed  by, 
When  I  returned  thee  glance  for  glance  ! 

For  all  my  youth  is  still  my  own, — 
Bound  in  the  volume  of  my  age, — 
And  breath  from  thee  hath  only  blown 
The  leaves  back  to  the  golden  page ! 


A  GOLDEN  WEDDING-SONG 


THE  links  of  fifty  golden  years 

Reach  to  the  golden  ring 
Which  now,  with  glad  and  grateful  tears, 

We  celebrate  and  sing. 
O  chain  of  love  !     O  ring  of  gold  ! 

That  have  the  years  defied  ; 
And  still  in  happy  bondage  hold 

The  old  man  and  his  bride  ! 
20* 


466  SHORTER   POEMS. 

The  locks  are  white  that  once  were  black ; 

The  sight  is  feebler  grown  ; 
But  through  the  long  and  weary  track 

The  heart  has  held  its  own  ! 
O  chain  of  love  !     O  ring  of  gold  ! 

That  time  could  not  divide  ; 
That  kept  through  changes  manifold 

The  old  man  with  his  bride  ! 

The  little  ones  have  come  and  gone ; 

The  old  have  passed  away ; 
But  love — immortal  love — lives  on, 

And  blossoms  'mid  decay. 
O  chain  of  love  !     O  ring  of  gold ! 

That  have  the  years  defied  ; 
And  still  with  growing  strength  infold 

The  old  man  and  his  bride ! 

The  golden  bridal !  ah,  how  sweet 

The  music  of  its  bell, 
To  those  whose  hearts  the  vows  repeat 

Their  lives  have  kept  so  well ! 
O  chain  of  love  !     O  ring  of  gold  ! 

O  marriage  true  and  tried ! 
That  bind  with  tenderness  untold 

The  old  man  to  his  bride  ! 


SHORTER   POEMS.  467 


DANIEL  GRAY. 

IF  I  shall  ever  win  the  home  in  heaven 

For  whose  sweet  rest  I  humbly  hope  and  pray, 

In  the  great  company  of  the  forgiven 

I  shall  be  sure  to  find  old  Daniel  Gray. 

I  knew  him  well ;    in  truth,  few  knew  him  better ; 
For  my  young  eyes  oft  read  for  him  the  Word, 
And  saw  how  meekly  from  the  crystal  letter 
He  drank  the  life  of  his  beloved  Lord. 

Old  Daniel  Gray  was  not  a  man  who  lifted 
On  ready  words  his  freight  of  gratitude, 
Nor  was  he  called  upon  among  the  gifted, 
In  the  prayer-meetings  of  his  neighborhood. 

He  had  a  few  old-fashioned  words  and  phrases, 
Linked  in  with  sacred  texts  and  Sunday  rhymes  ; 
And  I  suppose  that  in  his  prayers  and  graces, 
I've  heard  them  all  at  least  a  thousand  times. 

I  see  him  now — his  form,  his  face,  his  motions, 
His  homespun  habit,  and  his  silver  hair, — 
And  hear  the  language  of  his  trite  devotions, 
Rising  behind  the  straight-backed  kitchen  chair. 

I  can  remember  how  the  sentence  sounded — 
"Help  us,  O  Lord,  to  pray  and  not  to  faint!" 
And  how  the  "  conquering-and-to  conquer"  rounded 
The  loftier  aspirations  of  the  saint. 


468  SHORTER   POEMS. 

He  had  some  notions  that  did  not  improve  him, 
He  never  kissed  his  children — so  they  say  ; 
And  finest  scenes  and  fairest  flowers  would  move  him 
Less  than  a  horse -shoe  picked  up  in  the  way. 

He  had  a  hearty  hatred  of  oppression, 
And  righteous  words  for  sin  of  every  kind  ; 
Alas,  that  the  transgressor  and  transgression 
Were  linked  so  closely  in  his  honest  mind  ! 

He  could  see  naught  but  vanity  in  beauty, 
And  naught  but  weakness  in  a  fond  caress, 
And  pitied  men  whose  views  of  Christian  duty 
Allowed  indulgence  in  such  foolishness. 

Yet  there  were  love  and  tenderness  within  him  ; 
And  I  am  told  that  when  his  Charley  died, 
Nor  nature's  need  nor  gentle  words  could  win  him 
From  his  fond  vigils  at  the  sleeper's  side. 

And  when  they  came  to  bury  little  Charlie, 
They  found  fresh  dew-drops  sprinkled  in  his  hair, 
And  on  his  breast  a  rose-bud  gathered  early, 
And  guessed,  but  did  not  know  who  placed  it  there. 

Honest  and  faithful,  constant  in  his  calling, 
Strictly  attendant  on  the  means  of  grace, 
Instant  in  prayer,  and  fearful  most  of  falling, 
Old  Daniel  Gray  was  always  in  his  place. 

A  practical  old  man,  and  yet  a  dreamer, 
He  thought  that  in  some  strange,  unlooked-for  way 
His  mighty  Friend  in  Heaven,  the  great  Redeemer, 
Would  honor  him  with  wealth  some  golden  day. 


SHORTER   POEMS. 

This  dream  he  carried  in  a  hopeful  spirit 
Until  in  death  his  patient  eye  grew  dim, 
And  his  Redeemer  called  him  to  inherit 
The  heaven  of  wealth  long  garnered  up  for  him. 

So,  if  I  ever  win  the  home  in  heaven 

For  whose  sweet  rest  I  humbly  hope  and  pray, 

In  the  great  company  of  the  forgiven 

I  shall  be  sure  to  find  old  Daniel  Gray. 


MERLE    THE    COUNSELLOR. 

OLD  MERLE,  the  counsellor  and  guide, 
And  tall  young  Rolfe  walked  side  by  side 
At  the  sweet  hour  of  eventide. 

The  yellow  light  of  parting  day 
Upon  the  peaceful  landscape  lay, 
And  touched  the  mountain  far  away. 

The  tinkling  of  the  distant  herds, 
And  the  low  twitter  of  the  birds 
Mingled  with  childhood's  happy  words. 

The  old  man  raised  his  trembling  palm, 
And  bared  his  brow  to  meet  the  balm 
That  fell  with  twilight's  dewy  calm  ; 

And  one  could  see  that  to  his  thought, 
The  scenes  and  sounds  around  him  brought 
Suggestions  of  the  heaven  he  sought. 


47O  SHORTER   POEMS. 

But  Rolfe,  his  young  companion,  bent 
His  moody  brow  in  discontent, 
And  sadly  murmured  as  he  went. 

For  vagrant  passions,  fierce  and  grim, 
And  fearful  memories  haunted  him, 
That  made  the  evening  glory  dim. 

Then  spoke  the  cheerful  voice  of  Merle  : 
"  Where  yonder  clouds  their  gold  unfurl, 
One  almost  sees  the  gates  of  pearl. 

"  Nay,  one  can  hardly  look  amiss 
For  heaven,  in  such  a  scene  as  this, 
Or  fail  to  feel  its  present  bliss. 

"  So  near  we  stand  to  holy  things, 

And  all  our  high  imaginings, 

That  faith  forgets  to  lift  her  wings !  " 

Then  answered  Rolfe,  with  bitter  tone  : 
"  If  thou  hast  visions  of  the  throne, 
Enjoy  them  ;   they  are  all  thy  own. 

"  For  me  there  lives  no  God  of  love  ; 
For  me  there  bends  no  heaven  above  ; 
And  Peace,  the  gently  brooding  dove, 

"  Has  flown  afar,  and  in  her  stead 
Fierce  vultures  wheel  above  my  head, 
And  hope  is  sick  and  faith  is  dead. 

"  Death  can  but  loose  a  loathsome  bond, 
And  from  the  depths  of  my  despond, 
I  see  no  ray  of  light  beyond." 


SHORTER   POEMS.  471 

It  was  a  sad,  discordant  strain, 

That  brought  old  Merle  to  earth  again, 

And  filled  his  soul  with  solemn  pain. 

At  length  they  reached  a  leafy  wood, 
And  walked  in  silence,  till  they  stood 
Within  the  fragrant  solitude. 

Then  spake  old  Merle  with  gentle  art  : 
"  I  know  the  secret  of  thy  heart, 
And  will,  if  thou  desire,  impart." 

Rolfe  answered  with  a  hopeless  sigh, 
But  from  the  tear  that  brimmed  his  eye, 
The  old  man  gladly  caught  reply, 

And  spoke  :    "  Beyond  these  forest  trees 
A  city  stands  ;   and  sparkling  seas 
Waft  up  to  it  the  evening  breeze, 

"  Thou  canst  not  see  its  gilded  domes, 
Its  plume  of  smoke,  its  pleasant  homes, 
Or  catch  the  gleam  of  surf  that  foams 

"And  dies  upon  its  verdant  shore, 
But  there  it  stands  ;  and  there  the  roar 
Of  life  shall  swell  for  evermore ! 

"  The  path  we  walk  is  fair  and  wide, 
But  still  our  vision  is  denied 
The  city  and  its  nursing  tide. 

"  The  path  we  walk  is  wide  and  fair, 
But  curves  and  wanders  here  and  there, 
And  builds  the  wall  of  our  despair. 


472  SHORTER   POEMS. 

"  Make  straight  the  path,  and  then  shall  shine 
Through  trembling  walls  of  tree  and  vine 
The  vision  fair  for  which  we  pine. 

"And  thou,  my  son,  so  long  hast  been 

Along  the  crooked  ways  of  sin, 

That  they  have  closed,  and  shut  thee  in. 

"  Make  straight  the  path  before  thy  feet, 
And  walk  within  it  firm  and  fleet, 
And  thou  shalt  see,  in  vision  sweet 

"  And  constant  as  the  love  supreme, 
With  closer  gaze  and  brighter  beam, 
The  peaceful  heaven  that  fills  my  dream." 

He  paused  :   no  more  his  lips  could  say ; 
And  then,  beneath  the  twilight  gray, 
The  silent  pair  retraced  their  way. 

But  in  the  young  man's  eyes  a  light 

Shone  strong  and  resolute  and  bright, 

For  which  Merle  thanked  his  God  that  night. 


WANTED. 

GOD  give  us  men !     A  time  like  this  demands 

Strong  minds,  great  hearts,  true  faith,  and  ready  hands ; 

Men  whom  the  lust  of  office  does  not  kill  ; 

Men  whom  the  spoils  of  office  cannot  buy ; 
Men  who  possess  opinions  and  a  will  ; 

Men  who  have  honor, — men  who  will  not  lie ; 


SHORTER  POEMS.  473 

Men  who  can  stand  before  a  demagogue, 

And  damn  his  treacherous  flatteries  without  winking ! 
Tall  men,  sun-crowned,  who  live  above  the  fog 

In  public  duty,  and  in  private  thinking  : 
For  while  the  rabble,  with  their  thumb-worn  creeds, 
Their  large  professions  and  their  little  deeds, — 
Mingle  in  selfish  strife,  lo  !    Freedom  weeps, 
Wrong  rules  the  land,  and  waiting  Justice  sleeps  ! 


VERSES    READ     AT   THE   HADLEY    CEN 
TENNIAL. 

(JUNE   9,   1859.) 

HEART  of  Hadley,  slowly  beating 

Under  midnight's  azure  breast, 
Silence  thy  strong  pulse  repeating 

Wakes  me — shakes  me — from  my  rest.* 

Hark  !   a  beggar  at  the  basement ! 
Listen  !   friends  are  at  the  door  ! 
There's  a  lover  at  the  casement ! 
.  There  are  feet  upon  the  floor ! 

But  they  knock  with  muffled  hammers, 

They  step  softly  like  the  rain, 
And  repeat  their  gentle  clamors 

Till  I  sleep  and  dream  again. 


*  The  pulsations  of  Hadley   Falls,  on  the  Connecticut,    are  felt  for  many  miles 
around,  in  favorable  conditions  of  the  atmosphere. 


474  SHORTER  POEMS. 

Still  the  knocking  at  the  basement ; 

Still  the  rapping  at  the  door ; 
Tireless  lover  at  the  casement ; 

Ceaseless  feet  upon  the  floor. 

Bolts  are  loosed  by  spectral  fingers, 
Windows  open  through  the  gloom, 

And  the  lilacs  and  syringas 

Breathe  their  perfume  through  the  room. 

'Mid  the  odorous  pulsations 

Of  the  air  around  my  bed, 
Throng  the  ghostly  generations 

Of  the  long  forgotten  dead. 

"  Rise  and  write  !  "   with  gentle  pleading 
They  command,  and  I  obey  ; 

And  I  give  to  you  the  reading 
Of  their  tender  words  to-day  : 

"  Children  of  the  old  plantation, 
Heirs  of  all  we  won  and  held, 

Greet  us  in  your  celebration — • 
Us — the  nameless  ones  of  Eld  ! 

"  We  were  never  squires  or  teachers, 
We  were  neither  wise  nor  great, 

But  we  listened  to  our  preachers, 

Worshipped  God  and  loved  the  State. 

"  Blood  of  ours  is  on  the  meadow, 

Dust  of  ours  is  in  the  soil, 
But  no  marble  casts  a  shadow 

Where  we  slumber  from  our  toil. 


SHORTER   POEMS.  475 

"  Unremembered,  unrecorded, 

We  are  sleeping  side  by  side, 
And  to  names  is  now  awarded 

That  for  which  the  nameless  died. 

"  We  were  men  of  humble  station ; 

We  were  women  pure  and  true  ; 
And  we  served  our  generation, — 

Lived  and  worked  and  fought  for  you. 

"  We  were  maidens,  we  were  lovers, 

We  were  husbands,  we  were  wives ; 
But  oblivion's  mantle  covers 

All  the  sweetness  of  our  lives." 

"  Praise  the  men  who  ruled  and  led  us  ; 

Carry  garlands  to  their  graves ; 
But  remember  that  your  meadows 

Were  not  planted  by  their  slaves. 

"  Children  of  the  old  plantation, 

Heirs  of  all  we  won  and  held, 
Greet  us  in  your  celebration, — 

Us,  the  nameless  ones  of  Eld." 

This  their  message,  and  I  send  it, 

Faithful  to  their  sweet  behest, 
And  my  toast  shall  e'en  attend  it, 

To  be  read  among  the  rest. 

Fill  to  all  the  brave  and  blameless 

Who,  forgotten,  passed  away! 
Drink  the  memory  of  the  nameless, — 

Only  named  in  heaven  to-day ! 


4/5  SHORTER   POEMS. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

THERE'S  a  song  in  the  air! 

There's  a  star  in  the  sky ! 

There's  a  mother's  deep  prayer 

And  a  baby's  low  cry  ! 

And  the  star  rains  its  fire  while  the  Beautiful  sing, 
For  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  cradles  a  king. 

There's  a  tumult  of  joy 

O'er  the  wonderful  birth, 

For  the  virgin's  sweet  boy 

Is  the  Lord  of  the  earth, 

Ay !   the  star  rains  its  fire  and  the  Beautiful  sing. 
For  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  cradles  a  king ! 

In  the  light  of  that  star 

Lie  the  ages  impearled  ; 

And  that  song  from  afar 

Has  swept  over  the  world. 

Every  hearth  is  aflame,  and  the  Beautiful  sing 
In  the  homes  of  the  nations  that  Jesus  is  King. 

We  rejoice  in  the  light, 

And  we  echo  the  song 

That  comes  down  through  the  night 

From  the  heavenly  throng. 

Ay !   we  shout  to  the  lovely  evangel  they  bring, 
And  we  greet  in  his  cradle  our  Saviour  and  King ! 


SHORTER   POEMS.  477 


THE  OLD   CLOCK   OF   PRAGUE. 

THERE'S  a  curious  clock  in  the  city  of  Prague — 

A  remarkable  old  astronomical  clock — 
With  a  dial  whose  outline  is  that  of  an  egg, 

And  with  figures  and  fingers  a  wonderful  stock. 

It  announces  the  dawn  and  the  death  of  the  day, 
Shows  the  phases  of  moons  and  the  changes  of  tides, 

Counts  the  months  and  the  years  as  they  vanish  away, 
And  performs  quite  a  number  of  marvels  besides. 

At  the  left  of  the  dial  a  skeleton  stands  ; 

And  aloft  hangs  a  musical  bell  in  the  tower, 
Which  he  rings,  by  a  rope  that  he  holds  in  his  hands, 

In  his  punctual  function  of  striking  the  hour. 

And  the  skeleton  nods,  as  he  tugs  at  the  rope, 
At  an  odd  little  figure  that  eyes  him  aghast, 

As  a  hint  that  the  bell  rings  the  knell  of  his  hope, 
And  the  hour  that  is  solemnly  tolled  is  his  last. 

And  the  effigy  turns  its  queer  features  away 
(Much  as  if  for  a  snickering  fit  or  a  sneeze), 

With  a  shrug  and  a  shudder,  that  struggle  to  say  : 

"  Pray    excuse    me,    but — just    an    hour    more,    if    you 
please  ! " 

But  the  funniest  sight,  of  the  numerous  sights 

Which  the  clock  has  to  show  to  the  people  below, 

Is  the  Holy  Apostles  in  tunics  and  tights, 
Who  revolve  in  a  ring,  or  proceed  in  a  row. 


4/8  SHORTER   POEMS. 

Their  appearance  can  hardly  be  counted  sublime ; 

And  their  movements  are  formal,  it  must  be  allowed ; 
But  they're  prompt,  for  they  always  appear  upon  time, 

And  polite,  for  they  bow  very  low  to  the  crowd. 

This  machine  (so  reliable  papers  record) 

Was  the  work,  from  his  own  very  clever  design 

Of  one  Hanusch,  who  died  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
One  thousand  four  hundred  and  ninety  and  nine. 

Did  the  people  receive  it  with  honor  ?   you  ask  ; 

Did  it  bring  a  reward  to  the  builder  ?     Ah,  well ! 
It  was  proper  that  they  should  have  paid  for  the  task ! 

And  they  did,  in  a  way  that  it  shocks  me  to  tell. 

For  suspecting  that  Hanusch  might  grow  to  be  vain, 
Or  that  cities  around  them  might  covet  their  prize, 

They  invented  a  story  that  he  was  insane, 

And,  to  stop  him  from  labor,  extinguished  his  eyes  ! 

But  the  cunning  old  artist,  though  dying  in  shame, 
May  be  sure  that  he  labored  and  lived  not  amiss ; 

For  his  clock  has  outlasted  the  foes  of  his  fame, 
And  the  world  owes  him  much  for  a  lesson  like  this  : 

That  a  private  success  is  a  public  offence, 
That  a  citizen's  fame  is  a  city's  disgrace, 

And  that  both  should  be  shunned  by  a  person  of  sense, 
Who  would  live  with  a  whole  pair  of  eyes  in  his  face. 


SHORTER   POEMS.  4/9 


ALBERT  DURER'S  STUDIO. 


IN  the  house  of  Albert  Durer 

Still  is  seen  the  studio 
Where  the  pretty  Nurembergers 

(Cheeks  of  rose  and  necks  of  snow) 
Sat  to  have  their  portraits  painted, 

Thrice  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Still  is  seen  the  little  loop-hole 
Where  Frau  Durer's  jealous  care 

Watched  the  artist  at  his  labor, 
And  the  sitter  in  her  chair, 

To  observe  each  word  and  motion 
That  should  pass  between  the  pair. 

Handsome,  hapless  Albert  Durer 
Was  as  circumspect  and  true 

As  the  most  correct  of  husbands, 
When  the  dear  delightful  shrew 

Has  him,  and  his  sweet  companions, 
Every  moment  tinder  view. 

But  I  trow  that  Albert  Durer 
Had  within  his  heart  a  spot 

Where  he  sat,  and  painted  pictures 
That  gave  beauty  to  his  lot, 

And  the  sharp,  intrusive  vision 
Of  Frau  Durer  entered  not. 


480  SHORTER   POEMS. 

Ah  !  if  brains  and  hearts  had  loop-holes, 
And  Frau  Durer  could  have  seen 

All  the  pictures  that  his  fancy 
Hung  upon  their  walls  within, 

How  minute  had  been  her  watching, 
And  how  good  he  would  have  been  ! 


ALONE ! 

ALL  alone  in  the  world  !    all  alone  ! 
With  a  child  on  my  knee,  or  a  wife  on  my  breast, 
Or,  sitting  beside  me,  the  beautiful  guest 
Whom  my  heart  leaps  to  greet  as  its  sweetest  and  best, 

Still  alone  in  the  world !    all  alone  ! 

With  my  visions  of  beauty,  alone ! 
Too  fair  to  be  painted,  too  fleet  to  be  scanned, 
Too  regal  to  stay  at  my  feeble  command, 
They  pass  from  the  grasp  of  my  impotent  hand  : 

Still  alone  in  the  world  !   all  alone  ! 

Alone  with  my  conscience,  alone  ! 
Not  an  eye  that  can  see  when  its  finger  of  flame 
Points  my  soul  to  its  sin,  or  consumes  it  with  shame  ! 
Not  an  ear  that  can  hear  its  low  whisper  of  blame ! 

Still  alone  in  the  world  !  all  alone  ! 

In  my  visions  of  self,  all  alone  ! 
The  weakness,  the  meanness,  the  guilt  that  I  see, 
The  fool  or  the  fiend  I  am  tempted  to  be, 
Can  only  be  seen  and  repented  by  me  : 

Still  alone  in  the  world  !    all  alone  ! 


SHORTER   POEMS.  481 

Alone  in  my  worship,  alone! 
No  hand  in  the  universe,  joining  with  mine, 
Can  lift  what  it  lays  on  the  altar  divine, 
Or  bear  what  it  offers  aloft  to  its  shrine : 

Still  alone  in  the  world !   all  alone ! 

In  the  valley  of  death,  all  alone ! 
The  sighs  and  the  tears  of  my  friends  are  in  vain, 
For  mine  is  the  passage,  and  mine  is  the  pain, 
And  mine  the  sad  sinking  of  bosom  and  brain  : 

Still  alone  in  the  world  !   all  alone  ! 

Not  alone  !    never,  never  alone  ! 

There  is  one  who  is  with  me  by  day  and  by  night, 
Who  sees  and  inspires  all  my  visions  of  light, 
And  teaches  my  conscience  its  office  aright  : 

Not  alone  in  the  world !  not  alone  ! 

Not  alone  !    never,  never  alone  ! 
He  sees  all  my  weakness  with  pitying  eyes, 
He  helps  me  to  lift  my  faint  heart  to  the  skies, 
And  in  my  last  passion  he  suffers  and  dies  : 

Not  alone  !   never,  never  alone ! 


SONG   AND   SILENCE. 


"  MY  Mabel,  you  once  had  a  bird 
In  your  throat  ;   and  it  sang  all  the    day ! 
But  now  it  sings  never  a  word  : 
Has  the  bird  flown  away  ? 
21 


482  SHORTER   POEMS. 

"  Oh  sing  to  me,  Mabel,  again  ! 
Strike  the  chords !     Let  the  old  fountain  flow 
With  its  balm  for  my  fever  and  pain, 
As  it  did  years  ago  !  " 

Mabel  sighed  (while  a  tear  filled  and  fell,) 
"  I  have  bade  all  my  singing  adieu  ; 
But  I've  a  true  story  to  tell, 
And  I'll  tell  it  to  you. 

"  There's  a  bird's  nest  up  there  in  the  oak, 
On  the  bough  that  hangs  over  the  stream, 
And  last  night  the  mother-bird  broke 
Into  song  in  her  dream. 

"  This  morning  she  woke,  and  was  still  ; 
For  she  thought  of  the  frail  little  things 
That  needed  her  motherly  bill, 
Waiting  under  her  wings. 

"And  busily,  all  the  day  long, 
She  hunted  and  carried  their  food, 
And  forgot  both  herself  and  her  song 
In  her  care  for  her  brood. 

"  I  sang  in  my  dream,  and  you  heard ; 
I  woke,  and  you  wonder  I'm  still ; 
But  a  mother  is  always  a  bird 
With  a  fly  in  its  bill !  " 


SHORTER   POEMS.  483 


WHERE   SHALL  THE   BABY'S   DIMPLE 
BE? 

OVER  the  cradle  the  mother  hung, 

Softly  crooning  a  slumber-song  ; 
And  these  were  the  simple  words  she  sung 

All  the  evening  long : 

"  Cheek  or  chin,  or  knuckle  or  knee, 
Where  shall  the  baby's  dimple  be  ? 
Where  shall  the  angel's  finger  rest 
When  he  comes  down  to  the  baby's  nest  ? 
Where  shall  the  angel's  touch  remain 
When  he  awakens  my  babe  again  ?  " 

Still  as  she  bent  and  sang  so  low, 

A  murmur  into  her  music  broke  ; 
And  she  paused  to  hear,  for  she  could  but  know 

The  baby's  angel  spoke. 

"  Cheek  or  chin,  or  knuckle  or  knee, 
Where  shall  the  baby's  dimple  be  ? 
Where  shall  my  finger  fall  and  rest 
When  I  come  down  to  the  baby's  nest  ? 
Where  shall  my  finger's  touch  remain 
When  I  awaken  your  babe  again  ?  " 

Silent  the  mother  sat,  and  dwelt 

Long  in  the  sweet  delay  of  choice  ; 
And  then  by  her  baby's  side  she  knelt, 

And  sang  with  pleasant  voice  : 


484  SHORTER   POEMS. 

"  Not  on  the  limb,  O  angel  dear ! 

For  the  charm  with  its  youth  will  disappear  ; 

Not  on  the  cheek  shall  the  dimple  be, 

For  the  harboring  smile  will  fade  and  flee ; 

But  touch  thou  the  chin  with  an  impress  deep, 

And  my  baby  the  angel's  seal  shall  keep." 


TO   A   SLEEPING   SINGER. 

LOVE  in  her  heart,  and  song  upon  her  lip — 

A  daughter,  friend,  and  wife — 

She  lived  a  beauteous  life, 

And  love  and  song  shall  bless  her  in  her  sleep. 

The  flowers  whose  language  she  interpreted, 

The  delicate  airs,  calm  eves,  and  starry  skies 

That  touched  so  sweetly  'her  chaste  sympathies, 

And  all  the  grieving  souls  she  comforted, 

Will  bathe  in  separate  sorrows  the  dear  mound, 

Where  heart  and  harp  lie  silent  and  profound. 

Oh,  Woman  !    all  the  songs  thou  left  to  us 

We  will  preserve  for  thee,  in  grateful  love ; 

Give  thou  return  of  our  affection  thus, 

And  keep  for  us  the  songs  thou  sing'st  above ! 


SHORTER   POEMS. 


EUREKA. 

WHOM  I  crown  with  love  is  royal; 

Matters  not  her  blood  or  birth  ; 
She  is  queen,  and  I  am  loyal 

To  the  noblest  of  the  earth. 

Neither  place,  nor  wealth,  nor  title, 
Lacks  the  man  my  friendship  owns  ; 

His  distinction,  true  and  vital, 
Shines  supreme  o'er  crowns  and  thrones. 

Where  true  love  bestows  its  sweetness, 
Where  true  friendship  lays  its  hand, 

Dwells  all  greatness,  all  completeness, 
All  the  wealth  of  every  land. 

Man  is  greater  than  condition, 
And  where  man  himself  bestows, 

He  begets,  and  gives  position 
To  the  gentlest  that  he  knows. 

Neither  miracle  nor  fable 

Is  the  water  changed  to  wine  ; 

Lords  and  ladies  at  my  table 

Prove  Love's  simplest  fare  divine. 

And  if  these  accept  my  duty, 

If  the  loved  my  homage  own, 
I  have  won  all  worth  and  beauty  ; 

I  have  found  the  magic  stone. 


486  SHORTER   POEMS. 


RETURNING  CLOUDS. 

THE  clouds  are  returning  after  the  rain. 

All  the  long  morning  they  steadily  sweep 
From  the  blue  Northwest,  o'er  the  upper  main, 

In  a  peaceful  flight  to  their  Eastern  sleep. 

With  sails  that  the  cool  wind  fills  or  furls, 
And  shadows  that  darken  the  billowy  grass, 

Freighted  with  amber,  or  piled  with  pearls, 
Fleets  of  fair  argosies  rise  and  pass. 

The  earth  smiles  back  to  the  smiling  throng 
From  greening  pasture  and  blooming  field, 

For  the  earth  that  had  sickened  with  thirst  so  long 

Has  been  touched  by  the  hand  of  The  Rain,  and  healed 

The  old  man  sits  'neath  the  tall  elm  trees, 
And  watches  the  pageant  with  dreamy  eyes, 

While  his  white  locks  stir  to  the  same  cool  breeze 
That  scatters  the  silver  along  the  skies. 

The  old  man's  eyelids  are  wet  with  tears — 
Tears  of  sweet  pleasure  and  sweeter  pain — 

For  his  thoughts  are  driving  back  over  the  years 
In  beautiful  clouds  after  life's  long  rain. 

Sorrows  that  drowned  all  the  springs  of  his  life, 
Trials  that  crushed  him  with  pitiless  beat, 

Storms  of  temptation  and  tempests  of  strife, 
Float  o'er  his  memory  tranquil  and  sweet. 


SHORTER   POEMS.  487 

And  the  old  man's  spirit,  made  soft  and  bright 
By  the  long,  long  rain  that  had  bent  him  low, 

Sees  a  vision  of  angels  on  wings  of  white, 
In  the  trooping  clouds  as  they  come  and  go. 


GRADATIM. 

HEAVEN  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound  ; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

I  count  this  thing  to  be  grandly  true  : 
That  a  noble  deed  is  a  step  toward  God, — 
Lifting  the  soul  from  the  common  clod 

To  a  purer  air  and  a  broader  view. 

We  rise  by  the  things  that  are  under  feet  ; 

By  what  we  have  mastered  of  good  and  gain ; 

By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain, 
And  the  vanquished  ills  that  we  hourly  meet. 

We  hope,  we  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust, 
When  the  morning  calls  us  to  life  and  light, 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and,  ere  the  night, 

Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordid  dust. 

We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray, 
And  we  think  that  we  mount  the  air  on  wings 
Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things, 

While  our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  clay. 


488  SHORTER   POEMS. 

Wings  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  men  ! 

We  may  borrow  the  wings  to  find  the  way — 
We  may  hope,  and  resolve,  and  aspire,  and  pray  ; 

But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 

Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 

From  the  weary  earth  to  the  sapphire  walls  ; 
But  the  dreams  depart,  and  the  vision  falls, 

And  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound ; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit,  round  by  round. 


ON  THE  RIGHT. 

ON  the  Righi  Kulm  we  stood, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
While  the  morning's  crimson  flood 

Streamed  along  the  eastern  sky. 
Reddened  every  mountain  peak 

Into  rose,  from  twilight  dun  ; 
But  the  blush  upon  her  cheek 

Was  not  lighted  by  the  sun ! 

On  the  Righi  Kulm  we  sat, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
Plucking  blue-bells  for  her  hat 

From  a  mound  that  blossomed  nigh. 
"  We  are  near  to  heaven,"  she  sighed, 

While  her  raven  lashes  fell. 
"  Nearer,"  softly  I  replied, 

"  Than  the  mountain's  height  may  tell." 


SHORTER  POEMS.  489 

Down  the  Righi's  side  we  sped, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
But  her  morning  blush  had  fled, 

And  the  blue-bells  all  were  dry. 
Of  the  height  the  dream  was  born  ; 

Of  the  lower  air  it  died  ; 
And  the  passion  of  the  morn 

Flagged  and  fell  at  eventide. 

From  the  breast  of  blue  Lucerne, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I 
Saw  the  brand  of  sunset  burn 

On  the  Righi  Kulm,  and  die. 
And  we  wondered,  gazing  thus, 

If  our  dream  would  still  remain 
On  the  height,  and  wait  for  us 

Till  we  climb  to  heaven  again ! 


THE   WINGS. 


A  FEEBLE  wail  was  heard  at  night, 

And  a  stifled  cry  of  joy  ; 
And  when  the  morn  broke  cool  and  light, 
They  bore  to  the  mother's  tearful  sight 

A  fair  and  lovely  boy. 

Months  passed  away  ; 
And  day  by  day 

The  mother  hung  about  her  child 
As  in  his  little  cot  he  lay, 

And  watched  him  as  he  smiled, 


49°  SHORTER  POEMS. 

And  threw  his  hands  into  the  air, 
And  turned  above  his  large,  bright  eyes, 

With  an  expression  half  of  prayer 

And  half  of  strange  surprise  ; 

For  hovering  o'er  his  downy  head 

A  dainty  vision  hung. 
Fluttering,  swaying, 

Unsteadily  it  swung, 

As  if  suspended  by  a  thread, 
His  own  sweet  breath  obeying. 


Sometimes  with  look  of  wild  beseeching 
He  marked  it  as  it  dropped 

Almost  within  his  awkward  reaching, 

And  as  the  vision  stopped 
Beyond  his  anxious  grasp, 
And  cheated  the  quick  clasp 

Of  dimpled  hands,  and  quite 

Smothered  his  chirrup  of  delight, 


And  he  saw  his  effort  vain 
And  the  bright  vision  there  again 
Dancing  before  his  sight, 

His  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears, 
Till  o'er  the  flooded  spheres 
The  soothing  eyelids  crept, 
And  the  tired  infant  slept. 
He  saw — his  mother  could  not  see — 
A  presence  and  a  mystery  : 

Two  waving  wings, 
Spangled  with  silver,  starlike  things  : 

No  form  of  light  was  borne  between ; 
Only  the  wings  were  seen  ! 


SHORTER   POEMS.  49! 

Years  steal  away  with  silent  feet, 

And  he,  the  little  one, 
With  brow  more  fair  and  voice  more  sweet 

Is  playing  in  the  sun. 
Flowers  are  around  him  and  the  songs 

Of  bounding  streams  and  happy  birds, 
But  sweeter  than  their  sweetest  tongues 
Break  forth  his  own  glad  words. 
And  as  he  sings 
The  wings,  the  wings ! 
Before  him  still  they  fly  ! 
And  nothing  that  the  summer   brings 

Can  so  entice  his  eye. 
Hovering  here,  hovering  there, 

Hovering  everywhere, 

They  flash  and  shine  among  the  flowers, 
While  dripping  sheen  in  golden  showers 
Falls  through  the  air  where'er  they  hover 
Upon  the  radiant  things  they  cover. 
Hurrying  here,  hurrying  there, 

Hurrying  everywhere, 
He  plucks  the  flowers  they  shine  upon, 
But  while  he  plucks  their  light  is  gone  ! 
And  casting  down  the  faded  things, 
Onward  he  springs 
To  follow  the  wings  ! 

Years  run  away  with  silent  feet ; 

The  boy,  to  manhood  grown, 
Within  a  shadowy  retreat 

Stands  anxious  and  alone. 
His  bosom  heaves  with  heavy  sighs, 

His  hair  hangs  damp  and  long, 
But  fiery  purpose  fills  his  eyes, 

And  his  limbs  are  large  and   strong  : 


492  SHORTER   POEMS. 

And  there  above  a  gentle  hill, 

The  wings  are  hovering  still, 

While  their  soft  radiance,  rich  and  warm, 

Falls  on  a  maiden's  form. 

And  see !  again  he  starts, 

And  onward  darts, 
Then  pauses  with  a  fierce  and  sudden  pain, 

Then  presses  on  again, 

Till  with  mixed  thoughts  of  rapture  and  despair, 
He  kneels  before  her   there  : — 

With  hands  together  prest, 

He  prays  to  her  with  low  and  passionate  calls, 
And,  like  a  snow-flake  pure,  she  flutters,  falls, 

And  melts  upon  his  breast. 

Long  in  that  dearest  trance  he  hung — 
Then  raised  his  eyes  ;  the  wings  that  swung 
In  glancing  circles  round  his  head 

Afar  had  fled, 
And  wheeled,  with  calm  and  graceful  flight, 

Over  a  scene 
That  glowed  with  glories  beauteously  bright 

Beneath  their  sheen. 

High  in  the  midst  a  monument  arose, 
Of  pale  enduring  marble  ;  calm  and  still, 

It  seemed  a  statue  of  sublime  repose, 
The  silent  speaker  of  a  mighty  will. 

Its  sides  were  hung  around 
With  boughs  of  evergreen  ;  and  its  long  shaft  was  crowned 

With  a  bright  laurel-wreath, 

And  glittering  beneath 
Were  piled  great  heaps  of  gold  upon  the  ground. 


SHORTER   POEMS.  493 

Children  were  playing  near — fair  boys  and  girls, 

Who  shook  their  sunny  curls, 
And  laughed  and  sang  in  mirthfulness  of  spirit, 

And  in  their  childish  pleasures 
Danced  around  the  treasures 
Of  gold  and  honor  they  were  to  inherit. 

The  sight  has  fired  his  brain  ; 
Onward  he  springs  again. 

O'er  ruined  blocks 
Of  wild  and  perilous  rocks, 
Through  long  damp  caves,  o'er  pitfalls  dire, 
And  maddening  scenes  of  blood  and  fire, 
Fainting  with  heat, 
Benumbed  with  cold, 
With  weary,  aching  feet, 
He  sternly  toils,  and  presses  on  to  greet 
The  monument,  the  laurels  and  the  gold. 
Years  have  passed  by  ;    a  shattered  form 
Leans  faintly  on  a  monument  ; 
His  glazing  eyes  are  bent 
In  sadness  down  :    a  tear  falls  to  the  ground 
That  through  the  furrows  of  his  cheek  hath  wound. 
The  children  beautiful  have  ceased  to  play, 
Tarnished  the  marble  stands  with  dark  decay, 
The  laurels  all  are  dead,  and  flown  the  gold  away. 

Once  more  he  raised  his  eyes  ;     before  him  lay 

A  dim  and  lonely  vale, 
And  feebly  tottering  in  the  downward  way 

Walked  spectres  cold  and  pale. 
And  darkling  groves  of  shadowy  cypress  sprung 
Among  the  damp  clouds  that  around  them  hung. 
One  vision  only  cheers  his  aching  sight ; 

Those  wings  of  light 
Have  lost  their  varied  hues,  and  changed  to  white, 


494  SHORTER   POEMS. 

And,  with  a  gentle  motion,  slowly  wave 

Over  a  new  made  grave. 

He  casts  one  faltering,  farewell  look  behind, 
Around,  above,  one  mournful  glance  he  throws, 
Then  with  a  cheerful  smile,  and  trusting  mind, 
Moves  feebly  toward  the  valley  of  repose. 
He  stands  above  the  grave  ;  dull  shudders  creep 
Along  his  limbs,  cold  drops  are  on  his  brow ; 
One  sigh  he  heaves,  and  sinking  into  sleep 
He  drops  and  disappears  ; — and  dropping  now, 

The  wings  have  followed  too. 
But,  lo !  new  visions  burst  upon  the  view  ! 

They  reappear  in  glory  bright  and  new  ! 

And  to  their  sweet  embrace  a  soul  is  given, 
And  on  the  wings  of  HOPE  an  angel  flies  to  HEAVEN. 


INTIMATIONS. 

WHAT  glory  then  !     What  darkness  now ! 

A  glimpse,  a  thrill,  and  it  is  flown ! 

I  reach,  I  grasp,  but  stand  alone, 
With  empty  arms  and  upward  brow ! 

Ye  may  not  see,  O  weary  eyes ! 

The  band  of  angels,  swift  and  bright, 
That  pass,  but  cannot  wake  your  sight, 

Down  trooping  from  the  crowded  skies 

O  heavy  ears !     Ye  may  not  hear 

The  strains  that  pass  my  conscious  soul, 
And  seek,  but  find  no  earthly  goal, 

Far  falling  from  another  sphere. 


SHORTER   POEMS.  495 

Ah  !  soul  of  mine  !     Ah  !  soul  of  mine  ! 
Thy  sluggish  senses  are  but  bars 
That  stand  between  thee  and  the  stars, 

And  shut  thee  from  the  world  divine. 

For  something  sweeter  far  than  sound, 
And  something  finer  than  the  light 
Comes  through  the  discord  and  the  night 

And  penetrates,  or  wraps  thee  round. 

Nay,  God  is  here,  couldst  thou  but  see  ; 

All  things  of  beauty  are  of  Him  ; 

And  heaven,  that  holds  the  cherubim, 
As  lovingly  embraces  thee ! 

If  thou  hast  apprehended  well 
The   tender  glory  of  a  flower, 
Which  moved  thee,  by  some  subtle  power 

Whose  source  and  sway  thou  couldst  not  tell ; 

If  thou  hast  kindled  to  the  sweep 
Of  stormy  clouds  across  the  sky, 
Or  gazed  with  tranced  and   tearful  eye, 

And  swelling  breast,  upon  the  deep  ; 

If  thou  hast  felt  the  throb  and  thrill 

Of  early  day  and  happy  birds, 

While  peace,  that  drowned    thy  chosen  words 
Has  flowed  from  thee  in  glad  good-will, 

Then  hast  thou  drunk  the  heavenly  dew ; 

Then  have  thy  feet  in  rapture  trod 

The  pathway  of  a  thought  of  God  ; 
And  death  can  show  thee  nothing  new. 


496  SHORTER   POEMS. 

For  heaven  and  beauty  are  the  same, — 
Of  God  the  all- informing  thought, 
To  sweet,  supreme  expression  wrought, 

And  syllabled  by  sound  and  flame. 

The  light  that  beams  from  childhood's  eyes, 
The  charm  that  dwells  in  summer  woods, 
The  holy  influence  that  broods 

O'er  all  things  under  twilight  skies, — 

The  music  of  the  simple  notes 

That  rise  from  happy  human  homes, 
The  joy  in  life  of  all  that  roams 

Upon  the  earth,  and  all  that  floats, 

Proclaim  that  heaven's  sweet  providence 
Enwraps  the  homely  earth  in  whole, 
And  finds  the  secret  of  the  soul 

Through  channels  subtler  than  the  sense. 

O  soul  of  mine !     Throw  wide  thy  door, 

And  cleanse  thy  paths  from  doubt  and  sin  ; 
And  the  bright  flood  shall  enter  in 

And  give  thee  heaven  for  evermore ! 


WORDS. 

THE  robin  repeats  his  two  musical  words, 
The  meadow-lark  whistles  his  one  refrain  ; 
And  steadily,  over  and  over  again, 

The  same  song  swells  from  a  hundred  birds. 


SHORTER   POEMS.  '497 

Bobolink,  chickadee,  blackbird  and  jay, 

Thrasher  and  woodpecker,  cuckoo  and  wren, 
Each  sings  its  word,  or  its  phrase,  and  then 

It  has  nothing  further  to  sing  or  to  say. 

Into  that  word,  or  that  sweet  little  phrase, 
All  there  may  be  of  its  life  must  crowd  ; 
And  lulling  and  liquid,  or  hoarse  and  loud, 

It  breathes  out  its  burden  of  joy  and  praise. 

A  little  child  sits  in  his  father's  door, 

Chatting  and  singing  with  careless  tongue  ; 
A  thousand  beautiful  words  are  sung, 

And  he  holds  unuttered  a  thousand  more. 

Words  measure  power  ;  and  they  measure  thine  •, 
Greater  art  thou  in  thy  prattling  moods 
Than  all  the  singers  of  all  the  woods  ; 

They  are  brutes  only,  but  thou  art  divine. 

Words  measure  destiny.     Power  to  declare 

Infinite  ranges  of  passion  and  thought 

Holds  with  the  infinite  only  its  lot, — 
Is  of  eternity  only  the  heir. 

Words  measure  life,  and  they  measure  its  joy  ! 
Thou  hast  more  joy  in  thy  childish  years 
Than  the  birds  of  a  hundred  tuneful  spheres, 

So — sing  with  the  beautiful  birds,  my  boy ! 


498  SHORTER   POEMS. 


SLEEPING  AND  DREAMING. 

I  SOFTLY  sink  into  the  bath  of  sleep  : 

With  eyelids  shut,  I  see  around  me  close 

The  mottled,  violet  vapors  of  the  deep, 
That  wraps  me  in  repose. 

I  float  all  night  in  the  ethereal  sea 

That  drowns  my  pain  and  weariness  in  balm, 
Careless  of  where  its  currents  carry  me, 

Or  settle  into  calm. 

That  which  the  ear  can  hear  is  silent  all; 

But,  in  the  lower  stillness  which  I  reach, 
Soft  whispers  call  me,  like  the  distant  fall 

Of  waves  upon  the  beach. 

Now  like  the  mother  who  with  patient  care 
Has  soothed  to  rest  her  faint,  o'erwearied  boy, 

My  spirit  leaves  the  couch,  and  seeks  the  air 
For  freedom  and  for  joy. 

Drunk  up  like  vapors  by  the  morning  sun 
The  past  and  future  rise  and  disappear  ; 

And  times  and  spaces  gather  home,  and  run 
Into  a  common  sphere. 

My  youth  is  round  me,  and  the  silent  tomb 
Has  burst  to  set  its  fairest  prisoner  free, 

And  I  await  her  in  the  dewy  gloom 
Of  the  old  trysting  tree. 


SHORTER   POEMS. 

I  mark  the  flutter  of  her  snowy  dress, 

I  hear  the  tripping  of  her  fairy  feet, 
And  now,  pressed  closely  in  a  pure  caress, 

With  ardent  joy  we  meet. 

I  tell  again  the  story  of  my  love, 

I  drink  again  her  lip's  delicious  wine, 
And,  while  the  same  old  stars  look  down  above, 

Her  eyes  look  up  to  mine. 

I  dream  that  I  am  dreaming,  and  I  start  ; 

Then  dream  that  nought  so  real  comes  in  dreams  ; 
Then  kiss  again  to  reassure  my  heart 

That  she  is  what  she  seems. 

Our  steps  tend  homeward.     Lingering  at  the  gate, 
I  breathe,  and  breathe  again,  my  fond  good-night. 

She  shuts  the  cruel  door,  and  still  I  wait 
To  watch  her  window-light. 

I  see  the  shadow  of  her  dainty  head, 

On  curtains  that  I  pray  her  hand  may  stir, 

Till  all  is  dark  ;    and  then  I  seek  my  bed 
To  dream  I  dream  of  her. 

Like  the  swift  moon  that  slides  from  cloud  to  cloud, 
With  only  hurried  space  to  smile  between, 

I  pierce  the  phantoms  that  around  me  crowd, 
And  glide  from  scene  to  scene. 

I  clasp  warm  hands  that  long  have  lain  in  dust, 
I  hear  sweet  voices  that  have  long  been  still, 

And  earth  and  sea  give  up  their  hallowed  trust 
In  answer  to  my  will. 


5OO  SHORTER   POEMS. 

And  now,  high-gazing  toward  the  starry  dome, 
I  see  three  airy  forms  come  floating  down — 

The  long-lost  angels  of  my  early  home — 
My  night  of  joy  to  crown. 

They  pause  above,  beyond  my  eager  reach, 

With  arms  enwreathed  and  forms  of  heavenly  grace  ; 

And  smiling  back  the  love  that  smiles  from  each, 
I  see  them,  face  to  face. 

They  breathe  no  language,  but  their  holy  eyes 
Beam  an  embodied  blessing  on  my  heart, 

That  warm  within  my  trustful  bosom  lies, 
And  never  will  depart. 

I  drink  the  effluence,  till  through  all  my  soul 

I  feel  a  flood  of  peaceful  rapture  flow, 
That  swells  to  joy  at  last,  and  bursts  control, 

And  I  awake  ;    but  lo  ! 

With  eyelids  shut,  I  hold  the  vision  fast, 
And  still  detain  it  by  my  ardent  prayer, 

Till  faint  and  fainter  grown,  it  fades  at  last 
Into  the  silent  air. 

My  God !    I  thank  Thee  for  the  bath  of  sleep, 
That  wraps  in  balm  my  weary  heart  and  brain, 

And  drowns  within  its  waters  still  and  deep 
My  sorrow  and  my  pain. 

I  thank  Thee  for  my  dreams,  which  loose  the  bond 

That  binds  my  spirit  to  its  daily  load, 
And  give  it  angel  wings,  to  fly  beyond 

Its  slumber-bound  abode. 


SHORTER   POEMS.  5DI 

I  thank  Thee  for  these  glimpses  of  the  clime 
That  lies  beyond  the  boundaries  of  sense, 

Where  I  shall  wash  away  the  stains  of  time 
In  floods  of  recompense  : — 

Where,  when  this  body  sleeps  to  wake  no  more, 

My  soul  shall  rise  to  everlasting  dreams, 
And  find  unreal  all  it  saw  before 

And  real  all  that  seems. 


OLD  AND  BLIND. 

GALLANT  Gray-beard,  can't  you  see 
You  unconscionable  bat,  you — 

While  you  play  the  devotee, 

That  the  girl  is  laughing  at  you  ? 

You  were  handsome  in  your  day, 
You  are  well  preserved  and  thrifty, 

And  your  manners,  one  may  say, 
Are  superb,  but — you  are  fifty  ! 

Don't  be  foolish,  now  you're  old, 
Flirting  in  this  feeble  fashion, 

Trying  on  a  hearth  grown  cold 
To  re-light  a  boyish  passion. 

You  have  had  your  day  of  youth, 
With  its  tender  freaks  and  fancies  ; 

You  have  known  a  woman's  truth, 

And  have  lived  Love's  sweet  romances. 


5O2  SHORTER   POEMS. 

Ay,  I  know  her  lips  are  red  ; 

True,  her  curls  are  black  and  glossy  • 
Yes,  she  bears  a  dainty  head, 

And  her  eyes  are  sweet  and  saucy. 

But  she  knows  you  act  a  part, 

While  you  try  to  tease  and  please  her,- 

Knows,  Old  Make-Believe,  your  heart 
Is  as  dead  as  Julius  Czesar  ; — 

Knows  it,  though  a  simple  girl, 

And  is  laughing  while  you  linger ; — 

Knows  it  well,  and,  like  a  curl, 

Winds  you  round  her  jeweled  finger ! 

But  if  you  must  act  a  part ; 

If  you  cannot  drop  your  feigning, 
Feign  you  have  not  in  your  heart 

Such  a  thing  as  love  remaining. 

Come  and  stand  with  me,  my  friend, — 
She'll  permit  you — never  doubt  her  I 

Do  as  I  do,  and  pretend 
Not  to  care  a  fig  about  her ! 


SHORTER   POEMS.  503 


HER   ARGUMENT. 

"  DONALD'S  dead,"  she  murmured,  smiling,  as  she  met  me 

at  the  door. 
"Come    and    see 'the    little    fellow   ere    we    carry    him 

away ! " 
Then  she   turned  with   queenly  gesture,  and  walked  firmly 

on  before, 

To  the  chamber  where  the   coffin  and   its  lovely  burden 
lay. 

She  was  not  of  earth    that    morning  ;    she    was   up  among 

the  spheres — 
Cloud  and  darkness  underneath,  and  round  her  paradisal 

air — 
For  her  eyes  had    seen  a   vision  that   forbade  their  falling 

tears, 

And  her  heart    had    framed  an    argument   that  banished 
her  despair. 

Smiling  lips  and  waxen  forehead,  folded  hands  and  pulse 
less  breast, 
There  he  lay — the  household  treasure — to  be  hidden  ere 

the  night  ! 
And  the  mother  stood  above  him  with  her  hands  together 

pressed 

In    a    rapture   of   thanksgiving  —  in    a   transport  of   de 
light  ! 


504  SHORTER   POEMS. 

Then  she  spoke  :  "  An    angel    met  him  at  the    parting  of 

his  breath, 
For  he    reached    his  hands    up  swiftly,  and  he  answered 

with  a  smile  ! 
Ah  my  Donald,  darling   Donald  !     Thou  art    conqueror  of 

death ! 

Evil    cannot    now    disturb    thee,    nor    the    touch    of    sin 
defile. 

"  Do    not   stray  too   far,  my   Donald  !     Linger  for    me  on 

the  hills! 
Oh,  there's  time    enough  for   straying !     Wait  and  see  it 

all  with  me  ! 
I  shall  go    to  thee  when    graciously   the    Heavenly    Father 

wills, 

And  I  know  that  I  shall  know   thee,  whensoever  it  may 
be!" 

I  had  come  to    bring   her   comfort,    but  I    stood    in  dumb 

amaze, 
For  her  peace  was  like  a  river   and  her  joy  too  full  for 

speech. 
I  had    come    to    lead   her    sobbing   through    the    dim    and 

doubtful  ways 

That  philosophy  discloses  and  the  hackneyed  schoolmen 
teach. 

She  had  learned  a   better  logic  ;    she    was  mistress  of  the 

hour  ; 
And     I    stood    before   her,   humbled,    knowing    that    my 

scheme  was  vain. 
"Tell  me,  woman,"  said    I,  trembling — "  tell  me,  if  thou 

hast  the  power, 

How  thou  knowest  that  this  little  boy  of  thine  shall  live 
again  ?  " 


SHORTER   POEMS.  505 

"Sweetest  thing  in  earth  and  heaven" — made  she  answer 

to  my  quest — 
"  Life   of   Godhead,  breath    of  angels,    every  good    and 

gift  above, 

Was  bestowed  upon  my  Donald — lived  and  throbbed  with 
in  his  breast — 

God  had  given  him  love  for  largess,  and  had  given  him 
power  to  love  ! 

"  If  He  had  not  loved   my  Donald,  would  He,  think  you, 

have  bestowed 
What  was  best  in  all  His  kingdom — what  was  royal  and 

divine — 

On  the  little  earthly  nature,  till  I  knew  it  the  abode 
Of  the    presence    of  The    Master,  and    revered    it    as  a 
shrine  ? 

"God  is  bountiful,  but    gives  not  gifts    like  this  to   stocks 

and  stones  ! 
His  are    all   the    living   creatures    on   a  thousand  happy 

hills  ; 
But  He    only  gives  them   pleasure,    and    a   place   to   hide 

their  bones 

When    decay  descends    upon    them,  or    the   cruel   hand 
that  kills. 

"  Would  He  fit  a  soul  to   love  Him,  and  give  nothing   in 

return  ? 
Would  He  care  a  soul    should    love    Him  if  He  did  not 

love  it  well  ? 

Love  must  find  a  love  that  answers,  or  with  hopeless  pas 
sion  learn  ; 

And  God  loves  us,  or  our   love    is    but   the  mockery  of 
hell. 


505  SHORTER   POEMS. 

"  This   is   certain   as  the   sunlight,  this   is   true    as    life    is 

true: 
And    no-  soul    can    frame    conception    of   a    being     so 

inane, 

That,  with  power  to  save,  He  wills  not  to  recover  and  re 
new 

Every   object    of    His    tenderness    that    falls    in    mortal 
pain  ! 

"  Oh  I  know  it  :    God  loved  Donald ;   and  He  will  not  let 

him  die. 
Even  I  had  saved   him   living    if  my  love    had   had    the 

might. 
Did  the    God    of  earth    and   heaven    love    my  darling  less 

than  I ? 

Having  loved  him  will  He  damn  him  to  the  everlasting 
night  ? 

"  That  is  not  the  way  of  loving.     Every  instinct  of  love's 

power 
Moves  to  shield  its  precious  object  from  destruction  and 

decay  ; 
And  I  know  that  God  loved  Donald,  and  that  Donald  has 

for  dower 
Immortality  of  being,  in  the  everlasting  day  ! " 


SHORTER   POEMS.  507 


A  LEGEND   OF  LEAP  YEAR. 

"  No  poet  should  invent  his  own  romance." — Stedman. 

"  One,  two, 

Buckle  my  shoe" 

Two  little  shoes  with  silver  buckles  dight, 
Lay  in  the  room  where  she  had  passed  the  night. 
She  raised  them  in  her  fingers,  pink  and  white, 
And  put  them  on  her  feet,  and  strapped  them  tight. 

"  Three,  four, 

Open  the  door" 

Then  slowly  rising  from  her  cushioned  chair, 
She  gave  a  last  deft  crinkle  to  her  hair, 
And  oped  the  door  and  hurried  down  the  stair — 
Her  petticoats  soft  rustling  through  the  air ! 

"  Five,  six, 

Pick  up  sticks." 

Straight  to  the  yard  she  skipped  on  queenly  toes, 
To  where  in  serried  ranks  the  wood-pile  rose, 
Then  piled  her  arm  with  hickory  to  her  nose, 
And  bore  it  to  the  house  through  air  that  froze. 

"  Seven,  eight, 

Lay  'em  straight" 

At  length  the  wood  was  blazing  on  the  fire, 
Though  still  unequal  to  her  fierce  desire  ; 
And  so  she  punched  and  punched  the  cheerful  pyre, 
And  heaped  with  sticks  the  household  altar  higher. 


508  SHORTER   POEMS. 

"  Nine,  ten, 

Good  fat  hen." 

And  then  the  eager  hunger-fiend  was  foiled, 
And  she  was  glad,  indeed,  that  she  had  toiled  ; 
For  when  her  hands  were  washed,  so  sadly  soiled, 
She  sat  down  to  a  last  year's  chicken — BROILED  ! 

"  Eleven,  twelve, 

Toil  and  delve." 

Then  to  her  waist  her  pink  of  pinafores 
She  fastened,  and  did  up  her  little  chores, 
Made  soap,  made  bread,  baked  beans,  and  swept  her  floors, 
And  worried  through  a  hundred  household  bores. 

"  Thirteen,  fourteen, 

Girls  are  court  it?" 

Next  morn  before  her  door  the  grocer's  van 
Drove  up.     'Twas  leap-year,  and  she  laid  her  plan. 
So  when  he  asked  for  orders,  she  began 
To  blush,  and  said  she'd  take  a  market-man  ! 

"  Fifteen,  sixteen, 

Girls  are  fixirt '." 

She  overhauled  her  linen-chest  with  pride, 
Bought  hose,  bought  gloves,    bought   sheetings    two   yards 

wide, 

Bought  blankets  and  a  hundred  things  beside 
That  woman  buys  when  she  becomes  a  bride. 

"  Seventeen,  eighteen, 

Girls  are  waitin1." 

And  then  she  waited — waited  day  by  day, 
Till  weeks  had  flown,  and  months  had  passed  away, 
But  still  her  order  lingered  in  delay, 
Although  she  longed  to  have  it  filled — and  pay. 


SHORTER   POEMS.  509 

"  Nineteen,  twenty, 

Girls  are  plenty." 

At  length  she  knew.     Embarras  de  richesses 
Had  thrown  the  fellow  into  wild  distress, 
And  he  had  gone  to  drinking  to  excess, 
Crushed  by  the  weight  of  offered  loveliness. 

She  called  and  saw  him,  selling  by  the  pound 
Within  his  stall.     "Fact  is,"  said  he,  "I  found 
That  gals  this  year  so  wonderful  abound, 
No  single  market-man  won't  go  around!" 


FALSE   AND   TRUE. 

THE  false  is  fairer  than  the  true.     Behold 

Yon  cloudy  giant  on  the  hills  supine ! — 

The  figure  of  a  falsehood  that  doth  shine, 

Armored  and  helmeted,  in  such  a  gold 

As  in  the  marts  was  never  bought  or  sold, — 

Giant  and  armor  the  exalted  sign 

Of  shapes  less  glorious  and  tints  less  fine — 

Of  forms  of  truth  outmatched  a  thousand  fold ! 

Ah,  Poesie  !     Thou  charmer  and  thou  cheat ! 

Painting  for  eyes  that  fill  with  happy  tears, 

In  tints  delusive,  pictures  that  repeat 

Dull,  earthly  forms  in  heavenly  atmospheres ! 

How  dost  thou  shame  the  truth,  till  it  appears 

Less  lovely  far  than  thy  divine  deceit ! 


510  SHORTER   POEMS. 


THRENODY. 

OH,  sweet  are  the  scents  and  songs  of  spring, 

And  brave  are  the  summer  flowers ; 
And  chill  are  the  autumn  winds,  that  bring 

The  winter's  lingering  hours. 
And  the  world  goes  round  and  round, 

And  the  sun  sinks  into  the  sea  ; 
And  whether  I'm  on  or  under  the  ground, 

The  world  cares  little  for  me. 

The  hawk  sails  over  the  sunny  hill  ; 

The  brook  trolls  on  in  the  shade  ; 
But  the  friends  I  have  lost  lie  cold  and  still 

Where  their  stricken  forms  were  laid. 
And  the  world  goes  round  and  round, 

And  the  sun  slides  into  the  sea ; 
And  whether  I'm  on  or  under  the  ground, 

The  world  cares  little  for  me. 

O  life,  why  art  thou  so  bright  and  boon  ! 

O  breath,  why  art  thou  so  sweet ! 
O  friends,  how  can  ye  forget  so  soon 

The  loved  ones  who  lie  at  your  feet ! 
But  the  world  goes  round  and  round, 

And  the  sun  drops  into  the  sea, 
And  whether  I'm  on  or  under  the  ground, 

The  world  cares  little  for  me. 


SHORTER   POEMS.  $11 

The  ways  of  men  are  busy  and  bright ; 

The  eye  of  woman  is  kind  : 
It  is  sweet  for  the  eyes  to  behold  the  light, 

But  the  dying  and  dead  are  blind. 
And  the  world  goes  round  and  round, 

And  the  sun  falls  into  the  sea, 
And  whether  I'm  on  or  under  the  ground, 

The  world  cares  little  for  me. 

But  if  life  awake,  and  will  never  cease 

On  the  future's  distant  shore, 
And  the  rose  of  love  and  the  lily  of  peace 

Shall  bloom  there  for  evermore, 
Let  the  world  go  round  and  round, 

And  the  sun  sink  into  the  sea ! 
For  whether  I'm  on  or  under  the  ground, 

Oh,  what  will  it  matter  to  me  ? 


TO   MY   DOG   "BLANCO." 

MY  dear,  dumb  friend,  low  lying  there, 
A  willing  vassal  at  my  feet, 
Glad  partner  of  my  home  and  fare, 
My  shadow  in  the  street, 

I  look  into  your  great  brown  eyes, 
Where  love  and  loyal  homage  shine, 
And  wonder  where  the  difference  lies 
Between  your  soul  and  mine  ! 


$12  SHORTER   POEMS. 

For  all  of  good  that  I  have  found 
Within  myself  or  human  kind, 
Hath  royally  informed  and  crowned 
Your  gentle  heart  and  mind. 


I  scan  the  whole  broad  earth  around 
For  that  one  heart  which,  leal  and  true, 
Bears  friendship  without  end  or  bound, 
And  find  the  prize  in  you. 


I  trust  you  as  I  trust  the  stars ; 
Nor  cruel  loss,  nor  scoff  of  pride, 
Nor  beggary,  nor  dungeon-bars, 
Can  move  you  from  my  side ! 


As  patient  under  injury 
As  any  Christian  saint  of  old, 
As  gentle  as  a  lamb  with  me, 
But  with  your  brothers  bold ; 


More  playful  than  a  frolic  boy, 
More  watchful  than  a  sentinel, 
By  day  and  night  your  constant  joy 
To  guard  and  please  me  well, 


I  clasp  your  head  upon  my  breast — 
The  while  you  whine  and  lick  my  hand- 
And  thus  our  friendship  is  confessed, 
And  thus  we  understand  ! 


SHORTER  POEMS.  513 

Ah,  Blanco !   did  I  worship  God 
As  truly  as  you  worship  me, 
Or  follow  where  my  Master  trod 
With  your  humility, 

Did  I  sit  fondly  at  His  feet, 
As  you,  dear  Blanco,  sit  at  mine, 
And  watch  Him  with  a  love  as  sweet, 
My  life  would  grow  divine  ! 


TWO   HOMES. 

I  HASTEN  homeward,  through  the  gathering  night, 

Tow'rd  the  dear  ones  who  in  expectance  sweet 

Await  the  coming  of  my  weary  feet,  ^ 

With  faces  in  the  hearth-fire  glowing  bright, 

And  please  my  heart  with  many  a  lovely  sight 

Of  way-worn  neighbors,  stepping  from  the  street 

Through  doors  thrown  wide,  and  bursts  of  light  that  greet 

Their  entrance,  painting  all  their  paths  with  white  ; 

And  then  I  think,  with  a  great  thrill  of  bliss, 

That  all  the  world,  and  all  of  life  it  brings, 

Tell  me  true  tales  of  other  realms  than  this, 

As  faithful  types  of  spiritual  things  ; 

And  so  I  know  that  home's  rewarding  kiss 

Insures  the  hope  of  heaven  that  in  me.  springs. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


